


Complete Me

by facade



Series: Beautiful Minds [3]
Category: Black Swan (2010), Football RPF
Genre: 2013-14 Competitive European Football Season, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexuality, Canon Timeline, Coming Out, Delusions, Detachment, Drunkenness, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, FIFA Ballon d'Or, Hallucinations, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Homophobic Slurs, Homoromantic(s), Infidelity, M/M, Psychosis, Sexual Content, Typical Ballon d'Or Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 61,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1203292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels the sands falling against his flesh, buried by time as his image fades ((fade, fade, fade)) but the legend of him will only grow as the sands continue to fall... unless, unless, unless. You will say his name and yet you will find that another will resound as a distorted echo. ((Enough)). You will find his success yet your eyes will find another as he succeeds, as if awaiting the echo... ((Enough)). You will find that the white noise breathes in "Leo" yet they will exhale "Cristiano" as great sounds in greater canyons require an echo. ((Enough)).</p><p>So many below him. Maradona falls. Pelé falls. Di Stefano falls. Ronaldo falls. Zola falls. Best falls. All but one below him but he cannot, he will not... One name for the throne. Silence the echo. Adjust the legend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starry Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darthenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthenna/gifts).



> **Tags for triggers are updated as I update the fiction as this is a WIP; checking the tags frequently is suggested, however, I will do my best to indicate possible triggers at the start of the chapters, as well.**

There seems to be a chill about the air as the snow flurries roll within the Zurich skies, cover the city below them in a blanket of sparkling white painting the surfaces like a winter wonderland of sorts. The frost of the winter creeps along the edges of the windows of the buildings and the cars lining the street alike, perfectly framing the contents of their respective structures. There always seems to be something about the winter air that seems to clear the sky above, something about winter that allows the light of the celestial bodies above to easily permeate the atmosphere of the earth below and grace its inhabitants with their otherworldly glow. The luminosity of them would have been unparalleled on any other night, any other night. Tonight, however, tonight their shine is being grossly outdone by stars of a different kind, stars that are touching the earth with more than their light, stars of a tangible nature that are gracing a carpet of red with their presence, stars of flesh and blood. Whether you look up or directly across from you, you find yourself met by a bright and promising star of sorts, find yourself burning in the promise of magnificence. Whether you look up or directly across from you, you will easily notice that there is one star - always one - shining brighter than the rest; there would always be one star shining brighter, one star’s luminescence seeming to dim the light of the stars surrounding it. One.  

Tonight is not important. At least that’s what he has spent the last two hours telling himself. Hell, he supposes that’s what everyone here is telling themselves; that this one night will have no bearing on them beyond this very night, that it doesn’t matter. That’s why he's only spent hours rehearsing an acceptance speech he may never get to voice, a speech that is only intended to last no more than a minute or two, but it doesn’t matter. That’s why he only spent thousands on an admittedly flamboyant suit, that’s why he had obsessed over the trivial matter of ‘facial hair’ or ‘clean shaven’. It doesn’t matter. At least, that’s what he’s going to tell everyone who asks.

Leo sighs as he negligently pulls his eyes off of the heavens and redirects his attentions towards the flashes of light radiating from behind the lenses of photographers, offering his best smile as he does so. Okay, so it's his second best... Third best maybe. ((Ah, fuck it)). He waits, hesitates, realises that he can't bring himself to actually care about the media presence as he's become overriden by nerves so he doesn't pretend to any longer. He scribbles out a few autographs for adoring fans and he takes more than a dozen photos with the masses just before he pushes his way inside, silently bidding farewell to certain stars as he vocalizes his warmest of greetings to the supernovas of the eve.

* * *

He doesn’t know why Cristiano has saved him from the banter of Franck Ribéry nor is he one hundred percent certain of what they are currently ‘discussing’ (he's not even fifty percent sure but he'll make a wager and say it's related to football) but he is certainly grateful for the ‘distraction’. He just doesn’t want to hear about Bayern’s incredible season and he finds himself choking down syllables meant to form an ‘uncharacteristically’ snide remark about teamwork and collective trophies. He finds that this, this choking, happens on numerous occasions within one minute and thirty seconds of this agonizing conversation (not that he's counting how long his torture is being dragged out for because he's Lionel Messi and he'd never do such a thing. Oh no, he's much too modest, too humble to ever even think to do such a thing). He's grateful people can't read his thoughts and he smiles, both with himself and with Cristiano, makes himself a mental note to write an ode to Cristiano for his heroism (anonymously, of course) just before he tries to catch up with the conversation he is currently ‘engaged’ in before being caught out.

“...is not what I’m saying at all. Of course, these trophies are the most important things but a single individual cannot win the Champions League, or any league for that matter on their own, Franck. You know that, Leo knows this.”

((Oh, Cristiano. Never one to bite your tongue)). Lionel chuckles inwardly as he hears the thick accented English of the Portuguese man [unknowingly] voicing their shared opinions on the matter but he simply tilts his head as if he's saying "is that so?" because he's Lionel Messi and that's what he does.

“Yes, Cristiano, but great players win something.”

* * *

Everything is going to be just fine, he is going to be just fine. The Earth is still spinning, the stars haven't started falling from their places in the heavens, haven't started falling through the atmosphere (oh, but they have). The award doesn’t mean much anyway; it’s just an individual award that’s given out based on the biased, misguided opinions of a select few. That’s it. It's nothing more than that. At least that is what he keeps telling himself over and over again and that is what he intends to keep telling himself. He claps for the other man and he tells himself that the smile on Cristiano’s face has no affect, no bearing on him whatsoever. (It's a stupid fucking smile, anway). He finds himself reminding himself of the four Ballon d’Ors he has at home with his name inscribed on them, keeps telling himself that four is plenty and that a fifth one would simply be overdoing it. Hell, he doesn’t even have space on his shelves for a fifth one... or so he tells himself. He could have zero Ballon d’Or’s, zero trophies, and it wouldn’t change anything in the slightest... or so he tells himself. Without them he'd still be living in Barcelona, playing for Barcelona. The contract would be much smaller, of course, but his life would have been…

Leo’s eyes fall on the stage at that very moment and he watches as a blubbering Cristiano embraces his son with tears in his eyes. He finds himself, his thoughts wondering where he would have been, where the man with the gelled hair would be, if it wasn’t for his 2008 Ballon d’Or success. He could see Cristiano's motivation for success - the Portuguese had come from nothing - but was that why he has suddenly been surpassed? ((It's such a stupid award)). Is Cris' motivation, his ambition, his drive deeper than that of his own? ((It's just so pointless. It's a popularity contest)). He quickly shakes off the thoughts and laughs quietly at himself; this isn’t two thousand fucking eight and this isn't some kind of a pity party to celebrate how far someone has come. No. No, they are professionals and this, this is for the greatest footballer of two thousand thirteen - who climbed the highest, who played the hardest, the sickest - and ((he)) should be the one to lift that trophy... So why doesn’t he have it?

* * *

>   _"Very rarely do I meet an attacking player who is taller, faster, stronger, technically more gifted and better in the air. Nobody can compare with him.”_

* * *

> _"His decision-making, his maturity, his experience, plus all the great skills he has got, they all make him the complete player."_

* * *

> _“He plays on the left_
> 
> _He plays on the right…”_

* * *

He has heard it all before, the complete athlete argument versus the platinum left foot. He has seen his fans go at it with Cristiano’s more than once: he can dribble past any number of defenders and sink it into the back of the net with ease, he can occasionally whip a curler in on a set piece, but he doesn’t have a technique persay to his free kicks, he can't clear an opposing corner kick with his head. He knows that he can drill a hole into the back of a net if he fires a ball in with his left foot but with his right? ...his head? Yes, he has heard it all before, but suddenly, suddenly hearing it bothers him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (these paranthesis are ramblings of the fic)
> 
> ((these paranthesis replace italics [because I hate italics] and encase both stressed language and thoughts))


	2. Bitch, I'm Shakespeare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What moves those of genius, what inspires their work is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been [done] is still not enough." - Eugene Delacroix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Drunkenness

He notices that his vision has started blurring as he stares at the empty inside bottom his fifth glass, that the tension that has built up within him throughout the course of the evening has released its grip on him as the contents of his eighth glass course through his veins like wildfire, and after the tenth glass, after the tenth he doesn't notice much of anything. 

At some point in the evening, he finds himself drifting aimlessly from conversation to conversation; he swears that he's talking to Xavi one minute and yet he finds himself slumping over one of Alves’ shoulders, laughter heartily escaping into the crowded room of the after party, the next with Xavi nowhere to be found. He usually doesn’t drink much when there happens to be media lurking nearby (for this very reason) but the alcohol is free and seems to be the only thing that can effectually silence the critical voices that have begun to fill his head. Green flag waving from the moment he sees Cristiano lifting the golden ball with no checkered flag in sight, these thoughts take off and shred him to marbles. ((You came back too early in the second leg against Paris Saint Germain)), theyre telling him. Perhaps they're right. ((You should've rested further)), they scold him and he finds himself physically nodding his head in agreement. ((You didn't start off the year with a bang. You had already lost before the contention for the title had begun)) they press. 

Of course, the list of everything he has done wrong is accompanied by the list of everything he intendes on doing to get the individual accolade back. ((You stopped growing as an athlete. You need to push yourself harder. Find your limits and then push further)) he tells himself as he eats something - a cube of cheese? A cube of cheese - from a dish in front of him. ((Your style of play only limits you. You need to broaden your skill set)) and he commits to the idea because he can do that. He takes a swig of his champagne for each thought that stumbles across his mind; his thoughts aren't the only things he's going through in record time, Leo notices with a smile as he finds himself staring at the bottom of his now emptied glass. Forever empty.

He searches the room for another bottle of champagne and feels relieved to find one at a table only a few feet away from where he stands, or rather leans, against the bar. He can hear the whispers of the reporters as he fills his glass - "to the brim, to the brim goddamnit" and he laughs at himself, to himself - for the umpteenth time; he had lost count at ten. He smiles again as the click, click, clicking commences; he simply doesn’t care about what the media thinks and reports on. He doesn’t care about what anybody is thinking about right now, all that matters are his own thoughts and even ((he)) doesn’t want to think within the moment. 

He feels a firm hand grasp his shoulder tightly thus spurring him to turn around on his heel to meet the owner of the said hand. He swears he'll flick the person for throwing off his equilibrium. He'll take them to a Western shootout.

“You know, Leo, I think you’ve had more than enough to drink,” the young Brazilian whispers as respectfully as he can, eyeing the champagne glass Leo is currently finishing off. (He doesn't understand why Leo isn't just drinking from the bottle at this point as formality seems to be at the bottom of Leo's concerns in the moment). 

He normally knows better than to dabble in the affairs of his more seasoned teammates, isn't trying to step on toes or anything, but he's overwhelmed with concern, has been since the [end of the] ceremony, since he witnessed the shock encompass the features of the Argentine as Pele had announced Cristiano’s name over Leo’s. Of course, Leo had been the more than capable professional athlete and had seemed to recover rather quickly. At least to the untrained eye... but Neymar knows Leo better than that, can easily decipher that façade of the other forward...

Sometimes, sometimes Neymar even feels as if he can understand Leo better than he could ever understand himself. Sure, Neymar doesn't know Leo's father on a first name basis, he doesn't know how the Argentine takes his eggs nor even his coffee for that matter. He doesn't know how Lionel spends his alone time, he doesn't know which songs Leo sings to Thiago while he sleeps in his crib, if he sings to Thiago, nor does he know any of the details of Leo's relationship with Antonella... but he knows every rise and fall of the forwards face - every curve, every ridge. He knows every single one of Lionel's laughs and he knows what will make the number ten smile, frown, and laugh. He knows that he wants to be the person to hold Leo when he's upset or angry, to share a laugh with him over a warm breakfast..

He also knows that such hopes are far-fetched, are wishes on stars, dying fires and birthday candle flames burning to their end. He knows that Leo is at the center of the affections of millions and that he's... He's just another boy, albeit a famous boy, another human falling over themselves, clammoring for the affections of an immortal. He doesn't care though. He decides that he's still young and that his youth still allows him to be a bit näive, a bit optimistic, a bit hopeful. 

Leo scrunches up the features of his face in a bit of surprise. It isn't that he's found himself surprised by the allegation (not in the slightest) but more so with the fact that Neymar has actually approached him and has said such a bold thing. The boy is standing right in front of him and the words, those audacious words, have definitely filled the spaces between them. He doesn’t care about what Neymar thinks - Neymar should know that - so he pointedly chooses to ignore the advice of the youngster, throws back the contents of his glass anyway as he sets his gaze directly into Neymar’s. ((I see you. See me look through you? Exactly)). He gives the other forward a smirk before he suddenly becomes plagued with the thoughts he had been drinking to evade throughout the duration of evening, becomes plagued by the image of Cristiano over the edge of Neymar's shoulder - smiling, laughing, high. Alcohol burns through his veins, burns with something else inside of him.

“Neymar?” Leo asks softly as he furrows his brows together in deep thought. "What made you want to emulate Cristiano? You know, when you first came up as footballer? I know that there’s probably a list of people you wanted to be like growing up...” Leo’s voice trails as he momentarily thinks of his own inspirations, “but what made you put Cristiano on yours?”

The young Brazilian knits his own brows together and shakes his head in confusion, offers a shrug to buy himself some time. He hadn’t been expecting for Leo to suddenly pull him into a conversation that is intended for two sober people, not now in his current state, and he certainly hadn’t expected to be asked about why he has aspired to be like certain athletes, let alone ((by Lionel Messi)). Hell, he finds himself even more surprised by the realisation that he is currently capable of understanding Leo, that the Argentinian isn't jumbled syllables (though he is slurred speech). He's personally witnessed the number ten down two bottles of champagne with absolutely no help and he's checking his own breath for the stench of alcohol. ((I must have been seeing shit)). “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about, Leo.” Neymar quirks his eyebrow, slightly curious to see where Lionel may (or may not) be going with this, curious to see where the legends mind takes him when isn't 'all there'. Deep thought? Into a brick wall? Only one way to find out for a certainty. “Where is this coming fr- ?”

“Back in 2012,” Leo interrupts, his voice coming out as a sound barely audible over the music that is bouncing off of the walls, “you said that Cristiano, amongst others, was somebody you admired. I mean, I guess what I’m asking is why? Why do you admire him?” 

“...because he’s handsome, rich, and a great player,” Neymar quietly jokes just before he quickly steals a glance around the room, finding Cristiano chatting excitedly with Sergio Ramos. “The power and the strength behind his shots? I guess that’s what I admired the most about him, back in his Manchester glory days,” Neymar chuckles as he sees Leo scrunch up his face as if he's studying the man, as if he can see the other's strength as he stands. “I mean, you and I both know there's more to his game than that but when he was on the ball, he was a threat. Period. Where he was and is always seemed to be irrelevant. You don't see it from him too much anymore, shots like those, but you can still catch a glimpse of it every once and a while... That's what I want to be able to do, score from anywhere.” Neymar glances over at the older South American and can't help but wonder where all of this is going before he realises... “You are a powerful player as well, Leo.”

“Just not at a distance,” Leo mutters as he, too, finds Cristiano carrying on a jovial conversation with Ramos and ZiZou. He takes a moment, silently wonders if Zidane accepts headbutts as a proper form of greeting before Cris' laugh drives out the thought. “Not yet at least. There's going to be 'more to my game' soon enough."

Neymar quickly decides that it may be best not to question Leo about what he has meant in saying ‘not yet’ and there being 'more to [his] game' in the near future but, as he sees the eyes of the elder man narrow in on Cristiano once more, his curiosity gets the better of him, forces out the question regardless of his decision. “What did you mean? ...just now? You don’t need to be able to do everything Leo, that’s why you’re apart of a team. You have other people there to make up for your weaknesses and to put you into positions and situations where your strengths can show through, other people to break the walls that keep you from exploiting your greatest attributes. Football is a team sport, Leo. You know that.” His words seem to be a bit too advanced for his age but that's because they are. He has been on the other side, has listened to Ronaldinho recite this lecture a great many of times while he had been playing at Santos, never expecting to have to borrow the speech for a more seasoned player at his new club. Never for Leo.

Leo thinks back to the bits of Franck and Cristiano's conversation he had actually listened to and he shakes his head, suddenly disagreeing with the opinion he had held before the loss, before Cristiano's victorious smile. “It may be but an individual can make or break a team. I shouldn’t need another person’s abilities to be able to do everything ((he)) can do in the way that he does them, Ney," Leo snorts bitterly just before he turns his head towards the stature of the young Brasilian, sure to keep his eyes trained on Cristiano nonetheless. “He can do everything I can do, Neymar. Everything...”

“...but you’re the best at doing what it is that you do,” Neymar states a matter-of-factly, in a way that would seem as if he were carrying on a conversation with a three year old rather than a person of twenty-six years of age. “You know that." Neymar shakes his head in disbelief and tries his hardest to understand the conversation he is having and why he is having it with Leo Messi of all people. He can't wrap his head around it. His idol, his... "Why is this getting to you all of a sudden? When did, I don't know, being yourself and not someone else or even a hybrid of the two become not good enough for you?" ((It's more than good enough for me)). "I’m sure this didn’t bother you last year. Or the year before that. Or the year…”

“I didn’t lose on any of those occasions.” Leo answers absentmindedly as he watches Cristiano flutter over to where his own agent is standing, babbling with Florentino Perez. “It's not that I had thought that I would never lose. I just thought that I had lost to him for the last time in two thousand eight but that fucker, he keeps coming back. He just won't..." He trails as he decides that he needs more liquor, fills his glass and throws it back without ever sensing the taste. He smiles as he sees Marcelo laughing with Dani; he used to call him Mercutio. He laughs. "Are you familiar with Shakespeare?” Leo asks as he turns his attentions on Neymar for only the second time within their discussion. “I was forced to read his shit for school once and I was thinking about something he had said.”

((What the fuck)), Neymar wonders as their conversation, once again, takes what seems to be yet another sharp turn. “Yeah but whatever he had to say about this was probably outdated anyway. He's dead, you know.”

Despite his drunken state, Leo still finds himself shocked at the response and he chokes down the "I had no idea" soaked in blue font. ((Of course Shakespeare had to have a say in the great Lionel Messi v Cristiano Ronaldo debate)), Leo thinks sarcastically with a smile, amused at the idea of the poet writing of their "rivalry". The Montagu to his Capulet or vice versa. Piece of him suddenly hopes that he is looking at vodka in Neymar's glass and not the water he has initially presumed it to be. He manages to keep his laughter to himself and continues his thought. “It's nothing like that. He just wrote that some people are born great,” Leo whispers as if the famous words were a secret reserved only for the elite. “He said that some achieve greatness, and that others have it thrust upon them.” Leo shakes his head as he turns the quote over and over again within his mind as if it's his first time hearing it, detaches from his body to invest all of his energies into his thoughts. “...but which of those is the greatest?” Leo asks though the question is a rhetorical one. He knows who of the three is the greatest, and it is neither the one who has everything handed to him nor is it the one who is simply doing what he has to do. He vows to himself, right there and then, that he would be the greatest once and for all - no more debates, no more comparisons - no matter what it takes. Fuck being born with silk-like ability. Fuck being the one to drag Barça through yet another season. No, he's on his tiptoes and he's reaching now. He's sweating, burning, passing the warning signs that are telling him "not to exceed beyond...". Fuck limitations. He's achieving it all. His greatness will die only at his own legendary feet. 

* * *

Neymar watches as Leo stumbles over towards Cristiano, against his advice, and he can hear the smaller man congratulating the Portuguese winger from where he is standing. He finds himself grateful that, in actuality, Leo and Cris get on well. Sighing, Neymar puts his glass of water down and silently goes through everything that has just occurred between Leo and himself, tries to wrap his mind around it all as he fixes his sights on the Argentine who is now smiling at something Cristiano is saying. Had he shared the conversation he had just been involved in with anyone else, anyone else, he would have simply dismissed it as a case of 'Torres Syndrome' and pressed on. It isn’t any other player having doubts though. It isn’t some mediocre player within a squad, isn't even someone deemed as mortal. It's Leo, living legend of Barça. Leo is the one asking the dangerous questions, Leo is the one who is unsure of himself and, unlike Torres, it has absolutely nothing to do with his form. 

While Neymar can easily admit that he is ‘too young’ to care about much, he knows he's just old enough to care about Leo, to truly care about him, and that's exactly what he intends on doing. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Torres Syndrome](http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/e7c80640-5788-11e1-869b-00144feabdc0.html#axzz2tqDoKs00)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  


	3. Blurs and Disconnected Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Drunkenness || Sexual Content (Non-Explicit) || Infidelity || Emotional Infidelity || Psychosis

He isn’t too sure of how all of this has started; he can’t tell you why his back is pressed up against the wall, why his hands are currently roaming the ridges and the delicious valleys of this other man’s chest, or why he is hungrily nipping and sucking at the nape of a tanned neck. As far as he is concerned, it doesn’t matter why as all that matters is that this, this is actually happening, here and now. For once, he doesn’t want to think, feels liberated of the burden of thoughts and ideas. Not about what may or may not have led up to this very moment, not about what he may or may not have whispered [suggestively] into the other man’s ear to get him up here, not about what may or may not have caused him to offer his bed (his body) to the other man, not about what may or may not happen in the morning. No, for once he doesn’t want to think and he isn’t going to. He isn’t going to think about those bruises that are surely forming along the rises of his hips as the other man pulls him up off of the ground, as words dripping in a thick Portuguese accent encourage him to straddle those firm thighs as he loses ground. He isn’t going to think about the pain he will surely feel, not only in the morning, but in the days to come. He isn’t going to think because he knows that he doesn’t have to; he knows all that he needs to know, can hear the whispered promises of lust, passion, and satisfaction hanging distinctly in the air. That is all that he needs to know, so he doesn't waste time thinking about any expectations beyond those. No need to think. Just feel, feel, feel.

He hadn't expected for his invitation at the bar to be accepted, let alone the collision of lips and tongues, tongues and teeth, teeth and lips that comes with that acceptance, nor had he expected to throw himself at Cristiano when the other forward seems to be pulling away. He hadn’t expected to feel the full lips of the Madrid talisman on his neck as he watches his red jacket fall to the floor nor had he expected to be laying naked on the bed of his own suite as he watches his "guest" seductively undress before him: his tie carelessly sliding down his body, the shining dSquared2 jacket joining his on the floor. He feels, feels, feels his face flush as the crisp, white button up of the Madeiran is removed, the trousers following shortly after and unf... He feels some more. 

Part of him feels as if he should look away, as if he's some kind of pervert peering through a window and witnessing a show that isn’t truly intended for him, a show of sweaty, bronze-skinned muscles that is usually reserved only for the eyes of those possessing a complimentary, god-like beauty. Another part of him, however, a stronger, more commanding part of him, feels as if this is for him, as if this is something that he is "entitled" to. He looks away. No, Cris owes him this. He feels himself pulled back.

His mouth goes dry as he catches sight of Cristiano, clad only in his boxer-briefs, standing before him, smiling in the most lust filled and seductive of ways. He feels his throat constrict as he avidly watches the other man slowly run his tongue just below his upper lip and he hears himself release a pathetic whimper as Cristiano begins to teasingly play with the waistband of his boxer briefs. There is nothing that tortures him more than a tease but he feels, feels, feels nothing but want, need, desire, demand; it's as if he has been paralyzed, hypnotized as he watches the tantalizing winger peel the fitted cloth from off of his bronzed skin. It's not a question anymore, a bomb could have probably gone off within that very moment and he is absolutely certain that he won't spare the scene unfolding before him a moments peace from his gaze. He can feel himself growing as he watches Cristiano slowly pull away at the last of the fibers of his underwear and, though piece of him wants to jump on the other man thus ending this seemingly lives-long torment, he swears he feels, feels, feels... Unf. Feels nothing more than the pounding of his heart and the throbbing of his erection as those briefs fall to the floor. His heart rate has jumped quickly and suddenly, suddenly he feels very vulnerable, very meek sitting before what is being offered to him. His feelings of entitlement flee him though need fills him in the company unworthiness, yet who is he to refuse Cristiano of anything as he stands before him looking like... Fuck. A fucking god demanding to be worshipped. These are the only words he can think of to describe the other man, the scene unfolding though the longer he stares, the less justice it seems to do the Portuguese winger.

Leo watches - paralytically, jealously - as Cristiano slowly strokes himself, listens wantonly as the other releases soft whimpers and whispered moans of satisfaction, watches as he runs his hand along his own erection, elicits his own inaudibles. He watches as Cristiano bites his lip and looks pointedly, lustfully into his eyes. He watches as Cristiano sighs and rolls his eyes to the back of his head as the rhythm of his strokes escalate and he feels, feels, unf... He feels his own body, his muscles convulsing at the mere sight of it all. Leo watches as Cristiano stumbles back against one of the walls of the suite, the winger trading balance for pleasure. He listens as Cristiano releases a deep moan of satisfaction, as he once again quickens the pace of his stroking. Euphoric ecstasy seems to take hold of his nervous system and Leo watches, watches until he realises that he's simply watching.

He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t want to understand it. He doesn’t need to understand it. All he knows is that this is happening, here and now, and that he can either be apart of it or simply bear witness.

Leo quickly brings himself to his feet and stumbles over towards Cristiano, tripping only over his own bouts of euphoria as he makes his way over to the Portuguese talisman. He quickly stills the wrist of the winger and firmly plants his lips against those of the number seven; he's not thinking, he's simply doing. He hungrily explores the mouth of the other man, allows their tongues to dance more beautifully than either of them ever have with a ball. He melts into the kiss, loses himself between him and the other as the lines blur, as they blend and melt together. He can feel, feel himself losing all of his senses, all of them fleeing to gather and group beneath his sense of feeling. He feels the strong hands of the winger slip out of his grasp, snaking down his arms, rising and falling into each crevice of his abdomen, just before he feels them stop within the dips of his pelvic bones. He feels the other man’s full lips being dragged over towards his jawbone, leaving small promising kisses behind as they make their way down, down, down towards their destination. Assurances of intimacy are made between his jawbone and his chin, sentiments of lust and passion are left between his chin and his neck. He feels the hot breath of the number seven hovering over his collarbone and he can’t silence his moans as Cristiano gently brushes over a sensitive area of his flesh with his teeth. Ecstasy becomes him as he feels, feels the soft, full lips of the other man on the move once again, slowly being dragged down his body. 

Leo knows that Cristiano recognises the intensity of his breathing, knows that he feels it escalate beneath his touch but the more transparent his excitement becomes, the slower Cristiano seems to be going; the winger seems to be taking in every inch of him as his tongue traces every valley, every ridge of his abdomen, just before…

“Oh God!” They are the only words Leo can remember hearing that evening but even they seem to be an understatement for the sensations that are ripping through his body. Nothing compares to the feeling of Cristiano’s lips wrapping tightly around his girth. Nothing compares to the feeling of the tip of Cristiano’s tongue running over him, all of him. Nothing compares to... Cristiano? Eyes open as the realisation dawns on him but it's all too late, he's already conceded to the other.

He hasn’t heard Cristiano speak once throughout the entire encounter yet he feels as if Cristiano has said more that evening than he has ever said before [to him] by way of his body. Cristiano isn’t one for words anyways; he only likes to be judged by his performances and not by what he says... or so he says. Eyes close, a smile plays on his lips. Leo can definitely see why Cris values his performances over his words.

He can feel Cristiano’s hands trying to still his trembling hips as the Portuguese talisman continues to take him in completely, wholly, and he can hear the sounds of his own heart pounding against his chest, the tempo of it rising with each bob of Cristiano’s head. Cristiano is taking him in deeper and deeper with each movement of his head, deeper and deeper until Leo feels himself colliding with the soft tissue at the back of the older man’s throat. Deeper and deeper still, until Leo feels as if he cann’t take it any longer. Deeper and deeper... He falls.

The popping noise is enough to pull him out of his ecstasy ridden thoughts, enough to cast him into his own private hell, but the sudden feeling of ((nothing))... He glares at Cristiano with the fire of seven hells behind his gaze, one part anger and two parts of confusion, and he starts to ask him what the hell it is that he thinks that he's doing yet he finds himself quickly silenced before he even has the chance to speak by the full, hungry lips of the other man. The anticipation builds even more so within him as he feels himself being hoisted up onto a pair of strong hips...

...this is it. He sighs contentedly as he feels fingers slipping inside of him. It's finally time to see what Cristiano was all about, completely.

-

> _A sprinter’s long legs wrapped around a small body, the lean physique of a distance runner casting its shadows,_
> 
> _Thighs of a high jumper crashing against the back of a fit pair, their bodies carrying them to bliss,_
> 
> _Rivals to the media, enemies to their fans, simply desperate for someone to understand to one another,_
> 
> _An understanding had, indeed, bloomed, a realization made, a promise whispered and sealed with a kiss..._

  _Heavy breathing, bodies entwining, a single thought possessing the minds of two_

_Tongues dancing, lips quivering, a passion like no other unfolding within the silky linens_

_Muscle colliding with muscles, fingers roaming freely, no whispers of assurance needed_

_Him inside of him, their bodies together as one, silenced any and all thought of disapproving opinions._

-

Neymar sighs in exasperation as he, once again, reaches Leo’s voice mail. The Argentine should’ve been here by now and Neymar can’t stop mentally kicking himself. ((He’s fine)), Xavi had told him. ((Right, shows what he knows)), Neymar thinks bitterly as he awaits the beeping tone, the indication for him to leave his message. He can already see the attendant preparing to close the door and he finds himself wondering if he is the only one who has noticed that Leo isn’t there, that their star player is still unaccounted for. (Morons). She is ushering him in as he leaves the voice mail with Leo’s system; her eyebrows raise curiously as he assures the machine that he will try to hold up the plane.

-

Leo groans as he buries his head under his pillow in frustration; his phone has been going off non stop for the past hour and he can’t think of anything that could possibly be more important than his sleep right now. He has a pounding headache and he knows for a fact that he will be bolting for the toilet as soon as he finds himself in an upright position; he hasn’t even thought of the consequences of his actions from the night before and this hangover, this hangover is definitely a brutal one.

His phone goes off again, in spite of him and his consequence of debauchery, this time notifying him that he has received a voicemail. ((Welp. That's a first)). Sighing, he reaches out and grabs his cellular phone from off of the end table, a little surprised to still find it where he had left it before the gala, before last night... His thoughts immediately turn to Cristiano: the sheer look of focus in his eyes, the strength behind his movements and the power within them. He sighs contentedly, shakes off the thoughts as his phone beeps again, signalling an incoming text message.

He chuckles as he reads through a few messages from his friends; friends who, despite knowing him, feel the need to assure him that he had deserved the Ballon d’Or last night. He responds to a few but he ignores most just before he turns his attention to his awaiting voicemail.

“Oh fuck!” Leo shouts as soon as he hears Neymar’s panicked voice tunneling through the earpiece, offering to hold the plane. His plane. Their plane. He is late and... His stomach churns instantly at the sudden movement, threatening to board him on a flight straight to hell and he can already taste the contents of his stomach starting to resurface. ((No)), he thinks as he chokes it all down. (Delicious). ((I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to be vomiting in front of the toilet)).

Leo immediately finds his feet, his balance not too long after, and he begins to look for his things, quickly becoming frustrated as he fails to do so. He does his best to go through all of the events from the night before but everything after the gala seems to be a blur. He pulls at his hair and spins around in desperation (because that always helps), breath hitching as soon as he catches sight of the wrecked man in the mirror. He hesitates for a moment, stares at the man looking back at him, before simply shrugging.

((I must’ve redressed to go to the ice machine)), he figures as he grabs his still packed bag and leaves for the airport, vowing to change there.

-

He wakes up to the feeling of soft lips leaving trails of kisses from his ear down to his pulsing carotid artery, moaning as the other man finds every one of his sweet spots, including that oh-so-pleasurable one between the right of his trachea and his collarbone. He silently thanks his mother for taking Junior so he and "Irina" could have some alone time together, though Irina had left immediately after the gala to be on the set of some event the following day and had transitioned into a Spanish male at some point. A tattooed arm slides around his waist and slips a hand beneath the waistband of his briefs; he does his best yet still he fails to silence his moans, his involuntary admissions of satisfaction and contentment. He doesn’t like lying to his family, hates it actually, but he doesn’t know if they are ready to know yet, doesn’t know if ((he)) is ready to merge that world with this world yet. “What are you doing up so early?” He whispers huskily into the ear of the man behind him, doing his best to sound composed as the younger man fondles him deliciously.

“Your phone went off and it awakened me,” the other whispers as he nips and nibbles at the shell of the older one’s ear, “... all of me. You received a text message but your phone dimmed before I could see who it came from.”

Cristiano reluctantly leans over the side of the bed and grabs his cell phone from off of his nightstand, though he vividly remembers dropping it to the floor the night before after Sergio had given him a horrible, yet greatly appreciated, lap dance. With a melodramatic sigh, he turns on his phone's display, silently vowing that Sergio will finish what he's started; he just wants to make sure that it isn't a text message from his mother, to make sure that everything is alright with Junior but instead... “What the fuck is this shit?”

> Leo: Thanks for waking me up, dick! 

 

 


	4. Just Breathe, Slow and Steady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Sexual Content || Bisexuality and Homoromanticism || Infidelity || Emotional Infidelity

The tension hangs thick in the air pockets around them, is composed of questions that will never find their answers and worries about where this can potentially take them, suffocating the two of them as they wait for some sort of response, some kind of reaction from the other person.

Cristiano has already texted Lionel back as quickly as he can, fingers pounding the keys of his phone in the same pace that his boots have so often pounded the pitch in. He had simply asked him what the hell he had been talking about while making sure that the other man hasn’t simply texted the wrong number. He doesn’t understand it, can't even begin to understand where this sudden, ‘casual’ exchange of words is coming from so he's certain that it must have been a mistake. If that's all that Leo had said, that it was a mistake, then they wouldn't still be sitting here in mutual confusion with tension bridging the gaps between them.

(("Really? I nearly missed my flight thanks to you. That’s what the hell I’m talking about. You could’ve at least awakened me before you left last night or this morning")), is the only answer he has received before Leo’s phone has gone into airplane mode for take off. He has mumbled something about phones being useless as he moves to toss his own to the ground, turning his palms up as if he is searching for an answer of some kind that may be written on them in permanent ink. It usually wouldn't have bothered either of them but the timing, the timing is perhaps the most inconvenient aspect of it all. Things are just now starting to settle down between himself and…

Sergio wipes at the salty water that has strayed from his eyes and he does his best to regain his composure but only manages his absolute worst. He tells himself that it probably isn’t what it looks like, that this is something that is being taken out of context, that there must be some kind of mistake, that something has been lost in translation. When you yourself are in doubt, however, there never is any real merit behind anything you may be telling anyone to reassure them, yourself included. He is never one to assume, never one to judge without knowing the full story, never the type to bear the label ‘insecure’, but sometimes it just makes pefect sense.

“I told you I was sorry, Cris.” Always one to wear his emotions on his tattooed sleeves, his words are as weak and frail, as broken as his composure is, the shattering of his spirit reflects in the tears that fall from his eyes, the hurt made evident in the frowning fall of his lips. “I told you everything, I swear it. I thought we worked through this, I thought we were beyond...”

“Sh,” Cristiano whispers as he places a single finger gently over the lips of the Sevillan to silence him. He looks deeply within those Spanish eyes, makes a note of every fleck of gold that he finds, making note of the way they shimmer within that very moment. Mental click, click, clicking. A photo to store in "Dislike". He hates seeing Sergio like this, troubled, conflicted... “I would never betray you - ((with anyone)) - regardless of how difficult and complicated things may get” ...doubtful and guilt ridden. It's completely and entirely Sergio, though. This is the real Sergio barely anyone ever gets to see, the Sergio hidden from the prying eyes of the world: unsure, hesitant, plagued by his own thoughts. "We just have to take the complications of this, of us, and magnify the joys of it, love."

...And they were pretty complicated within the moment. Irina had asked him, not even a week ago, why he had suddenly become disinterested in having sex with her within the past few months (though Cristiano could easily tell you it had been over a year for them. Women...) and then Junior had turned around and had asked him why all of the other children at his school seemed to have mommies, if he has a mommy. He had shrugged off Irina, feeding her the (half honest) excuse that he had been distracted with all of his obligations but Junior, Junior had been a bit more difficult. He had done the horrible thing, took the easy way out, decided to capitalize on the boy’s age while inwardly thanking God that his son is petrified of cooties; Junior had refused to come within a hundred feet of Irina last night and told her to go away anytime she tried to steal a kiss on the cheek from him. If hiding from his family isn't enough to drive him to the brink, the thought of it expanding without the knowledge of any but two, the knowledge of any but them...

“You’re right. We ((did)) work through this, have worked through this, and I ((did)) forgive you, have forgiven you with all of my heart. Nothing has changed, Sergio. Maybe you just haven't forgiven yourself yet.” Cristiano sighs as he pulls himself out of his thoughts and rediscovers the honey-like hue of the Sevillan’s eyes, finds them vulnerable, almost puppy-like but not quite… “Think about it, Sergio. How could I have been with him when I was with you all night?” It's all as simple as that. How could he have been with anyone when he had been with Sergio? Same chapter, similar notes. How could he even think of anyone else when it is Sergio who consumes his mind, his every waking thought? “Now tell me,” Cristiano presses as he moves his finger below the strong chin of the defender, lifts the head of the Spaniard to where he can easily peer deeper into that almond gaze he so often gets lost in, “where are all of these doubts coming from? When have I ever given you a reason to doubt me? I told you that I’ve forgiven you and I meant it, so why do you still think I’m out and about, throwing my dick around at everyone I come into contact with, looking for some type of revenge?”

> _She was just supposed to be a cover up, something to keep the media distracted. He was just supposed to sleep with her when he needed to revitalize the image of ‘heterosexual, testosterone filled athlete’ for the tabloids and press but never, never unprotected. She was interchangeable, circumstantial. She could have been anybody for all he cared; a woman in her thirties or a girl just kissing twenty, a cougar or a peer. It didn’t matter to him because he could never love her - because his heart was in the hands of another._

“Four months.” Sergio sighs out, a knot forming in his throat as his realization materializes into words within the world outside of his mind. “In four months, I’m going to be a father. I’m going to hold a child in my arms and all I can think of, all I keep thinking of is what will I see? Will I hold him with pride or will I look at him in shame? Will I look from him to Pilar and see a beautiful thing we have created together or will I look from him to you and see an eternal reminder of betrayal? Will I…?”

“You will look at him,” Cristiano whispers as his mind fixates on the day he had first found Junior in his sights, “you will look at him and see your son and all that it implies.” His eyes slowly find the pouting, full lips of the Sevillan, his lips replacing his gaze not long after. It's soft and gentle, never rushed nor impatient, that’s the way it has always been between them. “You will experience a love like no other. A love that can be shared only between a father and a child,” Cristiano presses, his face still dangerously close to that of the Sevillan’s, his steaming breath ghosting the full lips of the number four. “It will be your greatest moment. I swear. It's better than winning La Liga, better than winning the Champion’s League…” Another gentle kiss, plush lips colliding together, lapping over one another with an unparalleled passion held deep within their intent. “...but he will only have a piece of your heart.” Cristiano chuckles as he places a firm hand on the right pectoral of the Sevillan and rolls him onto his back. “The other piece? That belongs to me and Junior.”

Sergio has stopped asking why he has fallen for Cristiano about a week after he finds himself looking up at the other man with scarred knees, having succumbed to the charm of the fall, completely tripped up in this little thing called love as the answer to the question he has been asking suddenly seems so obvious. Yet the question of why Cristiano has fallen for him is just as constant as the sunrise and the sunset, just as complex as an AP Calculus exam some fucking Culé throws at him after an away Clasico, just as mysterious as the disappearance of the Mayans. He wouldn’t change it for the world though; he doesn’t want those eyes looking at anyone else in the way that they seem to only fall upon him, he doesn’t want anyone else to be the source of that shy, insecure smile, and he doesn’t want anyone else to be right here, in his place, being straddled and kissed - loved - by Cristiano.

Cristiano deepens the kiss as he runs his trembling fingers over Sergio’s broad chest, moaning gently as they rise with each constricted muscle and fall with each crevice that defines them. His trembling fingers rise and fall, rise and fall. He can’t tell you why his fingers are trembling - whether it is from anticipation, lust, nerves - just that they always have, that they always do when he finds himself in Sergio's company, like this. He forces those shaky fingers up, cups Sergio’s face with the palms of his hands as he deepens the kiss still; he forces them up until those shaky fingers find themselves lost in the thick locks of Spanish hair, twirling and gently pulling, twirling and pulling.

To the media and everyone who encounters him, Cristiano knows how to speak three languages fluently. Sergio knows better than most though, knows that the winger knows how to communicate in more ways than just three. This - Cristiano’s lips pressing against his, their bodies melting together as one, their tongues rhythmically dancing around and with one another, their hands roaming the body of the other in an exploratory fashion as if something has changed about it within the past couple of minutes - this is a language all its own, a language meant only to be exchanged and understood by two. Cristiano has taught it to him gradually, this language of tongues and hands, throughout the past year and a half, has shown him how to use his body and not his words to convey what it is he wants, needs to hear, needs to ((feel)). Despite all of the time he spends at ‘study’, he often finds himself still the awestruck pupil, Cristiano the professor of this beautiful language shared only between two. All he can do at times is return the kiss with as much intensity as is being given, with as much passion as he is receiving (perhaps a pinch more) and hope that his message is being properly received and translated. The sudden roll in Cristiano’s hips assures him that the Portuguese not only understands what he is saying, but that he agrees with it.

“Are you sure you want to be in this position?” Sergio manages to ask in the middle of a short parting of their lips, voice husky and dripping with need, eyes searching for those of the Portuguese. He finds them, staring back at him in admiration, dark but he can still see Cristiano in them; he hasn’t lost himself to lust, he never has and Sergio is certain that he never will. “I mean, this time I could…” Sergio starts to offer before he is interrupted by the light chuckles of the forward.

“What bottom? Do everything for me Irina could?” Cristiano chuckles, his lips grazing the skin of the outer shell of Sergio’s ear now, hoping quietly that Sergio won’t take what he had said the wrong way, in the wrong light given the conversation that has preceded this moment. “Physically that is.” He corrects himself, just in case the defender is being pulled under by his thoughts again. He has always been physically attracted to both men and women, to both the soft curves of women and the jutting carve of pure muscle. He used to just assume that he can easily brush the male attraction to the side, stick with women for the sake of a stuffy society, but in time he has realized that women just aren’t emotionally strong enough for him, aren't emotionally "suitable" to his romantic interests. No one is emotionally "suitable" enough for him. No one other than Sergio.

Sergio chuckles lightly as he glances up at Cristiano, uses his teeth to pull in that now bruised and pouting lower lip of the winger, sucking on it only for a moment, a teasing moment, warning the number seven of plausible things to come. “No but,” Sergio moans as Cristiano slowly rolls his hips again, “are you sure you want to be on top like this when I…” ((Oh God!))...and words form foreign sounds, are needed no more.

_Fingers tracing against his scars as if pressing play on each and every recollection_

> _Hot breath ghosting skin exposed, his lips speaking yet no sound did they produce_

_That scar there a reminder of his dominance, this one here no more than a mark of possession,_

> _Hot breath ghosting skin exposed, his lips speaking yet no sound did they produce_

_That one over there a regret, a promise of never again, the one beneath here holding the past feeling of rejection_

> _Hot breath ghosting skin exposed, his lips speaking yet no sound did they produce_

_Scars singing of the time they had begun, of when he first touched him, of when he became apart of 'their' perfection,_

> _Hot breath ghosting skin exposed, his lips speaking yet no sound did they produce_

_Impressions on his skin no longer needed, as the ones upon his heart finally sunk just deep enough,_

> _Hot breath ghosting skin exposed, his lips speaking yet no sound did they produce_

_Fingers tracing scars, no, they were remembering each story of how they had begun, a story of 'us'_

> _Hot breath ghosting skin exposed, his lips speaking yet no sound did they produce_

_Promising him that these and they were the result of a never ending love._

Cristiano feels the strong, tattooed arms of the Spaniard snaking down the sides of his torso, his hands firmly grasping onto his hips, each movement of the other man so agonizingly slow; his breathing becomes ragged, no more than shallow gasps as the other teases him with the friction, teases him with the thought of their two bodies becoming one.

((Breathe)), Cristiano reminds himself as his head starts to spin, as Sergio takes control from beneath him, ((just breathe)).

Sergio is never one to talk during intercourse nor is Cristiano; they don’t need to as they understand one another perfectly. It hasn’t always been this way, though those times now dwell far off in the past of 'them', nothing more than dusty memories now. He often remembers the times when one would have to turn around to stop the other, at times throwing one another off of themselves completely, because that understanding hadn’t been there. One look into Cristiano’s eyes, that's all it takes he knows that this isn’t going to be some hot and heavy exchange. No, that isn’t what either of them wants, isn’t what they need. Passion induced fucking would have served no justice to how they truly feel about one another and he concedes to slow. He grabs the lube from off of the nightstand, feels wave after wave of relief as he finds that there is still some of the slick substance trapped in the tube (a shocking discovery given the night they had shared), and heavily coats his fingers in it.

((Breathe)) Cristiano repeats in his head over and over as he feels Sergio teasingly cup his scrotum just before the Spaniard gently shoves two moist digits deep inside of him, his body reacting immediately. ((Just, oh god, breathe)). He feels them slowly retracting ((exhale)) and then slowly re-entering ((inhale)). Retracting, ((exhale)) and re-entering ((inhale)). ((Just breathe)).

((Slow and steady)), Sergio thinks as he feels Cristiano’s tightness stretching deliciously around his fingers, gradually loosening the other with each retraction of his fingers. ((Slow and steady)), he reminds himself as he gently parts his fingers within the other man, eliciting high pitched whimpers and moans from the elder man as he gently scissors him open. ((Slow and steady)).

((Breathe, just breathe)). Cristiano feels as if breathing has suddenly become too difficult of a task for him to do, his mind is too busy, too preoccupied to keep him alive. Sergio is going to be the death of him. ((Breathe)). Moments come, fade. Moments die. The scissoring motion of the younger, caramel skinned man is suddenly not enough for him, he needs, needs more. ((Just breathe)). He feels them leave his body completely, those fingers his body had once protested against, feels a void where he knows Sergio should be, is meant to be. ((Breathe, just breathe)).

((Slow and easy)), Sergio thinks as he grazes each of Cristiano’s thighs with his thumbs one last time. He has memorized the forward’s body, memorized the sounds he will make when he first enters him, memorized the feeling of being inside of him; the memories never seem to do the arch in Cristiano’s spine justice though. Neither have they ever fully captured the magnitude of the sound of that soft, blissful whimper nor had they ever fully recreated that, this feeling of belonging. ((Slow and easy)).  

((Breathe)). Cristiano's gaze falls into the almond eyes of the Spaniard as the other pushes slowly, (so agonozingly slow) into him, eyes always full of wonder at times like these, always in awe of him. That’s why he loves to be here, looking down into those eyes, able to see them anytime during the exchange he so chooses. ((Just breathe)). He gasps inaudibly as he feels his body slide down to greet the pelvic bone of the Spaniard for the first time and he can't, he can't deny himself the urge to lean down and kiss those plump lips of the other man, he can't restrain his lips from meeting those of the other man. It is soft, gentle, long. It is perfect. It is them. Strong arms lift him a little, his moans colliding with the caramel neck of the catalyst with the sudden, yet oh so slow shift, his warm breath caressing the wolf tattoo hidden behind the ear of the other immediately after. ((Breathe))...

((Slow and steady)), Sergio scolds himself as he feels his primal instincts begin to rise within him, as his body screams in demand of more of this beautiful man. The other slowly rises and falls, though the feeling of soft, Portuguese lips never leave his neck. There is no nipping nor sucking, just light brushes of lips against skin, soft kisses of affection and admiration - light and controlled, feathery yet so tempting, so enticing. ((Lose yourself in me)), those lips of the other silently beg him, but he can't. He won't. He won't lose himself in anything that isn't Cristiano - not his lips, not his tightness - just Cristiano. ((Slow and steady)), Sergio reminds himself as Cristiano finds and exploits every sensitive area on his neck in the most gentle of ways. ((Slow and steady)).

((Breathe)), Cristiano reminds himself as soon as he turns his attentions away from the neck of the Spaniard and redirects his gaze to the caramel orbs of the defender finding them consumed: not by pleasure but by appreciation, not by lust but by love. He stares into them as he continues his pace on top of the other man, slowly and steadily rising and falling, rising and falling. He tries to look away from them, he tries not to get too lost in them, tries not to give in to the beauty of the Spaniard's soul, but surrenders to the fall before he even realizes that his heart is at risk... After all, what is making love if you don’t allow yourself to fall in love while you’re making it? They had abandoned the use of condoms as soon as they had become romamtically monogamous for this very reason, so they can be closer with one another, connect with one another, feel one another. ((Breathe. Just bre-... br-... b-...)). Scattering thoughts, blending rhythms of two heart beats..

((Just breathe)). ((Slow and steady)). They are falling together, into one another, yet somehow they manage to keep their pace at a slow and steady rhythm, bodies rubbing against each other to form the perfect combination of friction induced heat and cool sweat. No sounds of chaotic collisions are made between them, no sounds of desperate gasps nor eager moans. Just the sounds of heart rates fluttering, two men falling; the words of their conversation louder than that of any arguing couple, their meaning deeper than that of Paradise Lost, yet no sound needs to be made. ((Just breathe)). ((Slow and steady)).

Sergio can’t pull his eyes away from those of the man hovering above him, on top of him. He is so beautiful he doesn’t think he can look away, will ever want to look away; the way his mouth hangs open ever so slightly, the way his eyelashes flutter over the windows of his soul ((his beautiful fucking soul)) with each fluid movement. ((Slow and steady)), he reminds himself as he slows the pace back down after having increased it subconsciously. It is something he has never grown accustomed to in all of their time together, the stunning beauty and grace of Cristiano when he is engaged in something he is passionate about, something he believes in. ((Someone)).

Cristiano feels himself melting away, crumbling to pieces, hanging onto nothing other than the sounds of Sergio’s slow, rhythmic breathing. ((Breathe. Just breathe)). He somehow manages to keep his composure, somehow manages to suppress the frantic rise if only for a few more moments of this, a few more moments of Sergio, a few more moments of them.

The Sevillan has to force his eyes away from those of the Madeiran, well aware that if he continues to watch Cristiano fall apart and unravel on top of him he would soon follow with animalistic haste. ((Slow and steady))... but he wants more of this, needs to show Cristiano how he feels about him for as long as he possibly can. ((Slow and steady)). His eyes carry his sights down to his waist and, even then, just beyond it to the place where they blend together, to the place where they become one. He watches for a few moments, minutes, lifetimes as he disappears into the other and shifts his focus back onto Cristiano’s features as he slowly pulls away from him. ((Beautiful)). He quickly finds the lips of the winger again but the kiss, the kiss is as slow and meaningful as the conversation they are currently engaged in. He pushes his tongue into the mouth of the other in a soft, exploratory fashion wanting to be as inside of this other man as much as he can possibly be. 

> _His skin rubbing upon skin, his lips lapping and losing lips, **don’t lose me just yet, dear**_
> 
> _Sweat entwining with sweat, bodies becoming one, keep your eyes trained on mine, **my love**_
> 
> _I’m going to whisper something softly to you, listen to it, it **is something you won’t soon forget.**_
> 
> _Heart beats faster than movements, thoughts quicker than breaths, climaxes kissing heaven - **hold onto me.**_

Neither wants to let go as the need to rises within them, fingers tightly clenching around one another as they both begin to slip and tumble away, as they lose themselves in one another: Cris to Sergio and Sergio to Cris. They don't give in to the kisses. They don't give in to the touches. No, as they surrender themselves they surrender to nothing physical. They give in to passion, they give in to love, they give in to appreciation, they give in to the emotions of the other. They want to stay like this in spite of what their bodies are demanding - bound together, they want to be there for the other like this - emotionally connected - forever. One look into the eyes of the other, lips collide with an unvoiced whisper of (("hold on to me tightly; it's time")).

> _Hands anchor hips, eyes hold eyes,_
> 
> _their love engraved within their chests_
> 
> _Lips parting against lips, breathing into the other_
> 
> _this time neither of the two protests..._
> 
> _Bodies gone rigid, innards filled with warmth,_
> 
> _An ecstasy comparable to none,_
> 
> _To feel love, to hear love, without a single word_
> 
> _Pure euphoria when the two become one._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Xavi sighs in relief as he watches Leo make his way down the aisle of the plane and he listens to the other man mumble soft apologies to the club president and accompanying staff. He hadn’t seen it last night (and if he had, he had probably excused it as a result of the alcohol), that new glint in Leo’s eyes, the way his orbs seem to glow a little darker, the tiredness clearly entwining with sparks of resolve within them. He had dismissed Neymar’s concerns as an overreaction (because he's young and, as such, melodramatic) but now he can easily see that the young Brazilian hasn’t founded his worry on nothing.  As Leo attempts to walk past him, Xavi reaches out and pulls at the arm of the Argentinian, forces the latter to fall into the seat just beside his.

“How was the rest of your night?” He asks, sure to make his words sound light and not as concerned as he is starting to feel. “You were at the afterparty one minute and then you were gone the next.” He chuckles though there is something about this even, this exchange, that has him questioning exactly who is sitting beside him on the plane.

“It was great,” Leo whispers, still too exhausted and nauseated to deal with the sound of his own voice. “It was beautiful, actually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> 1\. Paradise Lost - [an amazing book I often quote] by John Milton (1667)


	5. Tick. Tick. Tick.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ((Tick. Tick. Tick. Your time is running out)). Time is running out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Psychosis

There is something about flying that always seems to soothe him to calm, there is something about being in an airplane miles off of the ground that seems to put everything into perspective for him, something that makes all of his problems seem as small and minuscule as the buildings below him. Perhaps it's the work of his mind simply taking the physical distance between himself and the earth and putting it into a figurative context, or maybe, maybe it's simply the way that even the mountains seem to shrink and prove themselves as something conquerable, the way the clouds don't seem to hang as high over the earth. He can stay up there, floating in the clouds, spending the entirety of his life looking down at the world below him, viewing it as his to conquer...

...but that will require that he be in Xavi's company for an extended period of time. Leo blinks and his thoughts take a sharp turn back into reality, tuning in to the sound of the Spaniard's voice droning over the soft humming of the jets engines he has taken a preference to. He has been drowning out the nagging of the midfielder for the past thirty minutes, though he can hardly blame the other man for his concern, but Leo’s mind has been somewhere far off, with someone far off. “I told you Xavi,” Leo groans as he tears his eyes away from the window across the aisle, trading in the vivid greens and blues of nature for the bland grays and browns of the cabin. “I’m fine. Would I lie to you?” ...and he is fine. Will be just fine. He has had plenty of one night stands in his lifetime; he knows how it all works but, truth be told, he has never expected that he'd someday become one. Especially not after...

> _He feels the other man’s full lips being dragged over towards his jawbone, leaving small promising kisses behind as they make their way to their destination. Assurances of intimacy are made between his jawbone and his chin, sentiments of lust and passion are left between his chin and his neck._

Lionel does his best to bury the memory, does his best to ensure that he knows that it all had meant nothing more yet still, still the taste of the other man lingers. He slides a stick of gum past the part of his lips. He's going to be just fine...

> _Rivals to the media, enemies to their fans, simply desperate for someone to understand to one another,_
> 
> _An understanding had, indeed, bloomed, a realization made, a promise whispered and sealed with a kiss..._

...they weren't something that would be fleeting. Some one night stand that would fade and amount to nothing; they were eternal. 

The Spaniard sighs and shakes his head as he catches a glimpse of the vacancy that has taken up residency in Leo's eyes, raising his eyebrows as he does so; he has felt as if he has been speaking with a brick wall over the past half hour, though he is certainly grateful that he has finally been given a response that isn't an irritated groan or a whispered 'kill me now'. “I’m not saying that you’re lying, Leo,” Xavi sighs as he angles his body towards the Argentine. “I just think that there’s something going on that you’re not telling me. I don't mean to nag but why the fuck did you drink so much last night; I haven’t seen you drink that much since you’ve met Antonella.” If Neymar was to be believed (and at this point, why wasn't he?) then Leo had drank enough to disable Charlie Sheen for the length of an entire weekend and that, that was nothing compared to the way Antonella had spoken of him... “Speaking of Antonella,” Xavi starts as he searches the eyes of the ["but he's a nine /and a half/"] striker for any indication of emotion - remorse, regret, pain, anything - nothing, “she told me that you even disappeared on her last night. She said that you were with her one minute, being distant and shit, and gone the next. She was worried sick and about to notify the authorities.” Xavi watches as the eyebrows of the number ten rise and fall as the Argentine seems to carelessly dismiss the concern of his significant other. “I mean, what the hell, Leo?” Xavi isn’t usually one to pry but after Neymar had announced that Lionel had not yet boarded the plane, cell phones were ripped out of pockets and the numbers to everyone Leo had ever mentioned in a conversation were pounded into them. “Then you nearly miss this flight, show up with an obvious hangover and you, you’re lost in thought throughout the whole flight." The Spaniard sighs in surrender and places a gentle hand on Lionel's shoulder. "As your captain, I’m simply glad that you’re here and I'm glad that you're safe." Xavi removes his hand, runs it through his hair before looking at Leo with a stern sense about it. "As your friend, you need to tell me what the hell is going on... This, this just isn’t you, Leo.”  

((This isn’t you, Leo)). ((This isn’t you, Leo)). ((This isn’t you, Leo)). The words replay within his mind over and over again. He hadn't been aware that there is a certain way he has to act in order to be himself, he hadn’t been aware that he is only allowed to do or say certain things in order to be Lionel Messi. He wants to slap Xavi, wonders who he'll magically transform into should he follow through with the thought. He wants to say something against the remark at the very least but he can already feel his temples throbbing in irritation; he is still recovering from the night before and Xavi’s ‘concerns’ are bothering the migraine he has been nursing since he had first risen that morning. Deciding that challenging the Spaniard will only worsen his anguish, he swallows his bitter remarks and thoughts, decides to give the man what he wants because (this should be fun). “You’re right, I wasn’t with Antonella last night. I was with someone, someone else.” Leo feels his cheeks flush to a crimson red as he glances over his shoulder, sighing in relief as he finds the Brasilians snoozing gently to the sounds of the music coursing from within the headphones covering their ears. He quickly turns his attention from them and places it on the palms of his hands, studying the wrinkles on them (so fascinating); he has seen many psychics tell someone’s future, someone’s story from the wrinkles on their palms, but he knows that his future is out of the grasp of some psychic fraud. ((Too bad)). “I’m not even sure of how it happened. It was like one minute I was at the party, the next I was studying, trying to understand…”

Xavi feels himself fighting back the urge to shake the small Argentinian; patience is usually one of his strong suits, you have to be patient if you want to play the tiki-taka of Spain and Barcelona, but when he steps off of the pitch… “Who exactly were you trying to understand?"

“Like I said, I don’t know how it happened.” Leo whispers nervously as he quickly glances into Xavi’s eyes before turning away again. “I just wanted to understand…”

Xavi covers his mouth with one of his hands and sighs into them, afraid to believe what it is that he thinks he is hearing, just waiting for Leo to shout the word ‘psych’ and punch him the arm for even hesitating to consider it as true. That moment never comes though, and he can’t stop himself from asking again, with a bit more firmness about his tone: “Who were you with?”

“Cristiano,” Leo blurts out a little louder than he has intended to but he knows that he has to say it quickly or he wouldn’t have said the name at all. “I was with Cristiano last night,” he whispers as he leans out into the aisle to ensure that the club’s staff hadn’t heard his sudden outburst.

There it is, the psych Xavi had been waiting for. It is a well known fact within the footballing realm that Lionel and Cristiano weren’t the enemies that the media has made them out to be. They got along rather nicely actually and, if Leo had gone missing to talk to Cristiano, big deal. They helped one another out, more than either of them cared to admit anyway. That was usual. “Oh, thank God. You made it sound like you had cheated on Antonella.” Xavi chuckles nervously as he wipes away the sweat that has formed against his palms. “I should’ve known better; you would never…”

((Inhale)). ((Exhale)). ((Inhale)). “...but I did.” ((Exhale)). 

Xavi studies the face of his teammate, scrutinizes every detail of the other man’s features, searching for any indication that he is simply fooling around; he had to have been. Especially if he is implying…? (No. Not Leo). Besides, Xavi had watched as the entire Madrid squad left the after party and headed for the airport - ((together)) - and he is certain that Cristiano had to have been in Spain, in the comfort of his own bed, by the time Leo had left the party. Unlike Barcelona, Real Madrid have a Copa game to play tomorrow whereas they have an additional day to rest and relax, train. “Well, who did you cheat on her with?”

+

Perhaps seeing Xavi on the bench for this game is for the best; the Spaniard has been looking at him a little differently ever since Leo has come out to him and the number ten simply can’t figure out if he is on the receiving end of a look of disgust, disappointment, shock, or a combination of the three. Either way, he has much more important things to worry about than Xavi’s feelings and opinions, he decides as he tries his best to shake off the feeling of Xavi's eyes on him. The sound of the referee’s whistle breaks through his worries and his thoughts, forces him to focus on the green of the pitch, the sounds - the cheering, the jeering - of the fans, the smell of dirt entwining with sweat. It's time.

-

He feels his blood coursing through his veins a little bit faster as the defenders (such a funny title for people who simply chased him) around him seem to be running a little bit slower, and the world seems to have stopped spinning altogether; it's simply his person surrounded by nothing but space, space, space all around him, never mind those little streaks of blue here and there, he’s going get by those easily. He knows that he has caught Neymar’s eye as he asks him to give the ball back, narrows his gaze as he sees the ball finally leaving the foot of the Brasilian. It's a layoff and it's just for him, and he finds himself doing what he has always done. It seems as if the ball is moving in slow motion as he watches it leave his left boot, he can see the spin of it perfectly, the slight curve of it, picks out the beautiful sound of it hitting the back of the net... on the wrong fucking side. ((It’s alright)), he coaxes himself as he glares down at his left foot, ((it’s only been four minutes. You still have plenty of time)). 

((Tick. Tick. Tick. Time is wasting away)) a voice deeper within him whispers. ((Tick. Tick. Tick. Two thousand fourteen is falling into the past, is becoming a distant has been. Has been. Has been. Tick. Tick. Tick)). He stops to catch his breath. ((Tick. Tick. Tick)). He shakes his head at himself as he decides that, no. No, this is not okay. ((Tick. Tick. Tick)). His blood boils as he glares down at his mistake; on any other day, that ball would have been kissing the fibers, the right side of it. Leo rarely, if ever, misses an opportunity like that and he knows it. ((Tick. Tick. Tick. Sands fall. Your time is running out)). He realises that part of him hadn't wanted to score that goal. His thoughts and insecurities had manifested, had shown through. He wants to score, yes, but just not with his left foot. That’s what he has always done and, while it works, simply scoring goals suddenly doesn’t seem like enough to him anymore, not enough to set him apart, and ((tick, tick, tick))... His time is running out.

> _“It may be [a team sport] but an individual can make or break a team. I shouldn’t need another person’s abilities to be able to do everything he can do in the way that he does them.”_

-

He feels as if he's experiencing deja-vu except there's two more minutes on the clock; he can see Neymar cutting into the box from the left, can see the pass coming straight for him... can see it bouncing just out of the eighteen yard box. ((Sands fall. Tick. Tick. Tick)). Lionel glares up at that stupid fucking clock and scolds himself for wasting another two minutes of time. He uses the back of his forearm to wipe the sweat from off of his face and he closes his eyes to try to recompose himself, to regather his thoughts, to figure out where he has gone wrong. ((Sands fall. Sands fall. Sands... rise, rise, rise)). As the sounds of the crowd fade to mute, he can hear small hums of contentment and satisfaction rising from within his memory. The fabric of his jersey seems to turn to a soft silk and the weight of the Barcelona crest ceases to exist; he feels weightless. ((Sands rise. Sands rise. Sands rise)). As the shouts of his teammates are reduced to meaningless whispers, he can make out the distinct breathing of another, feels ((his)) breath in the place of sweat beads, slowly making its way across his body. He smiles at the memory; Cristiano had had complete control… ((Tick. Tick. Tick. Sands fall)). 

His smile fades as the raised eyebrows of Alves come into focus only inches from his face and he can see the other's lips forming the question ‘are you okay?’. He doesn’t hear the question, doesn't register it, but he dismisses the concern of the Brasilian with a faint smile and a shrug anyway. “Control!” he shouts over the sounds of the crowd. “I just needed to control it! Vamos!”

-

Leo can almost hear the ticking sounds of the giant clock above him, it seems to be taunting him, and he feels himself choking down the urge to yell at any and every one of his teammates on the pitch, swallows his curses and profanities towards their mothers. He had sent the free kick in perfectly, the curve of it and the speed of it had been perfect… There had been three of them around the ball, three clad in the yellow and red of the Barcelona strip, three who missed, MISSED THE FUCKING BALL. ((You had one job)). One of his teammates were bound to latch on and send it home, he had thought it a certainty, yet instead he stands there and watches as it rolls off and beyond them to the feet of Tello... He doesn’t know where the hell Cristian has sent the ball off to with his strike but he wants nothing more than to ask him if the Martians had requested a ball, but instead of the dark eyes of the young Spaniard, he finds the clock: twelve minutes laid to waste. ((Tick. Tick. Tick. Laid to waste. Has been. History. The sands fall)).

-

Four minutes later, he finds himself lining up the ball from the area of a foul. He has already tuned out the jeers of the Getafe supporters and he's already prepared himself mentally for the strike; the wall seems massive and the keeper, ((shit, has he always been that large?)) Eyes up. It's the sixteenth minute and he still isn’t on the scoreboard but he is determined to change that, right here and right now. ((Try not to think about what’s standing between this ball and that goal, it’s already in there...)) He closes his eyes for only a brief moment but has found himself ambushed by the sudden apparition of Cristiano’s gunslinger pose, the sheer intensity in the winger’s eyes, the sudden pull back of Cristiano’s right boot as he makes contact with the ball... The sound of the whistle sends Cristiano’s free kick goal from the Osasuna match back to the day before and Leo finds himself streaking forward; he can feel the starched grass of the pitch crunching beneath his boots, can hear the sounds of the ball making contacting with his left boot. He watches as the ball rises, rises, rises gently over the wall and drops... softly into the arms of the keeper.

> _“The power and the strength behind his shots? I guess that’s what I admired the most about him[...] when he was on the ball, he was a threat. Period. Where he was and is always seemed to be irrelevant[…] That's what I want to be able to do, score from anywhere.”_

He closes his eyes in disappointment but he only sees the strength of Cristiano’s free kick. He tells himself that there is nothing more to Cristiano’s technique than his own but he can only hear the jeering of the Osasuna faithful and the cheering of the Getafe supporters, the jovial "whooping" of the Madridistas and the dissatisfied groans of the Culé. ((That's definitely a difference)). He finds himself glaring at the man clad in pink who holds his ball with ease but can only see the one in yellow and black failing to hold back the strength and power of Cristiano’s strike. ((Tick. Tick. Tick)). No, the next man to fail wouldn’t be him.

-

He finds himself charging into the box in the forty-fourth minute and he can see Tello beautifully latch on to the other end of the ball. Leo watches hungrily as Cristian sends the ball in towards him; he knows that he's covered (because when is he not?) and he can feel the ball collide with his midsection as a Getafe defender all but glues himself to his backside. He hears the swishing sound of the net before he sees the ball in it, can hear the jeering of the home supporters, the cheering of their away fans before he finds the smile on Tello’s face; on the outside, he celebrates with them, smiles for them - on the outside. ((Fantastic, Leo. You've managed to become a pillar of deflection. Who needs creation and ingenuity when you can have cheap goals that you pay for with nothing? It's sad, this thing that you’re becoming. You're complacent and the goals you do find, you just make fifty copies and call it a season. Do nothing. Become nothing... Forty-four minutes in and you couldn’t even create a goal, finish a goal; you’ve simply deflected one in)). It boils and it festers. ((Tick. Tick. Tick. Your time is running out)).

-

As the sounds of the half time whistle pull his mind out of the game, all he keeps hearing himself say is that he isn’t ready yet. He isn’t ready to face the man who will surely be waiting for him in the locker room, he can’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes. Part of him thinks about ignoring that man entirely; he can simply check in on Neymar, see how the kid is doing after he had limped off of the field... He feels the arm of a teammate collapse onto his shoulders as he is led (more like pushed) into the now crowded locker room. ((So much for that)).

He forces his way through the sweaty bodies of his teammates and quietly makes his way over to the line of sinks against the wall, sighing as he quickly becomes deafened by the team's vocalized defensive concerns. Deciding that he isn't quite ready for defensive duties ((yet)), Leo turns on the faucet of the sink in front of him and closes his eyes, willing for the sound of it to drown out the sound of Tata’s voice. He feels around until he is able to place his hands on either side of the sink and braces himself for the conversation he knows he needs to have, for the words he needs to hear, feel. 

((Inhale)). He slowly opens his eyes and finds the clear water pooling within the basin of the sink, slowly forces his gaze upwards. The man he had expected to see isn’t there though. The familiar eyes he was expecting to find seem to have fled; he stares at the man looking back at him with as much intensity as he can muster. His initial shock has left him ((of course, why wouldn't he be here?)) as he finds a set of brown eyes littered with flecks of green looking back him; their owner seems to be smiling back at him, taunting him, mocking him. 

“You’re in there, somewhere.” He knows his words have probably fallen on deaf ears as he finds Leo nonresponsive but Xavi would have never forgiven himself if he hadn’t tried. He places a gentle hand on the shoulder of the other forward, squeezes and smiles into the soft, brown eyes of the man in the mirror. He isn't too sure of who it is that he is looking at but he knows that Leo is still in there, somewhere. 

-

He has simply ambled forward with the ball at his feet when he catches sight of the first defender, immediately falling back on his instincts as he feels his spaces closing down, shrinking as the other man draws closer... but no, come a little closer. ((Dribble)). He stumbles a bit but he manages to keep his footing as streaks of blue fall past him. ((Dribble)). He blows past another blue streak. ((Dribble)). He can hear the Getafe defense shouting at one another, can hear their groans as another streak of blue falls behind him and collides with the pitch. ((Dribble)) and the fourth streak of blue is now behind him. He dances with the ball like only he knows how and eyes the keeper, watches as he comes off of his line. ((Stupid)). No, after waiting sixty-three minutes a simple shot past this keeper simply will not do. ((Dribble)). The keeper is behind him now - all of Getafe, all of Barcelona, pink, blue, yellow and red streaks - behind him. ((Goal!)) He celebrates calmly but even the cheering of their away supporters can’t dtown out the shouts of those critical voices. ((That’s all you ever do - dribble, dribble, left - and this, this is all you will ever be)). He celebrates but ((tick, tick tick)), he feels as if his time is running out.

Xavi smiles as he watches the ball collide with the fibers of the net. ((There's Leo)).

\-------

_20140114_

_Leo: Thanks for waking me up, dick!_

_Cristiano: I think you have the wrong number, bro. I’m sorry you were late for something (not sure what you were talking about there) and hope you can contact whomever you were trying to reach with this message. :) Good luck against Getafe, by the way!_

_Leo: Really? I nearly missed my flight thanks to you. That’s what the hell I’m talking about. You could’ve at least awakened me before you left last night or this morning._

_Cristiano: This is Cristiano and I’m really confused right now._

_Leo: There’s nothing to be confused about. You’re lucky Neymar held the plane for me._

_Cristiano: This isn’t funny._

_Leo: I see we’ve reached an agreement._

_\-------_

_20140115_

_Leo: Nice goal, ‘bro’. Preparing for the US already? At least you’ll finally be on the same team as Beckham, I know you’ve been chasing the hem of his jersey since Man United. It’s cool, you can’t handle the competition in La Liga, I get it._

_Cristiano: Oh, you saw that? I hope you took notes ‘bro’. And nah, you know that’s just the media speculating but it would be pretty nice. Besides, I’m fairly certain I handled you last year_

_\-------_

_20140116_

_Leo: Game against Getafe. Let’s see if you can handle me tonight_

_Cristiano: I’m confused again._

_Leo: I’ll. See. You. Tonight._

_Cristiano: Good because we really need to talk about what the hell is going on here._

_Leo: That we do_

_\-------_

_20140117: 0100_

_Leo: Leaving the hotel. Be there in a few._

_Cristiano: 281797_

_Cristiano: The code to the gate._

 


	6. Green Onions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Psychosis || Mild Sexual Content || Implied Infidelity || Emotional Infidelity

Leo sighs quietly as he brings his rental to a halt just outside of the iron gate guarding Cristiano’s home; it is a strange feeling, being on the other side of its bars and admiring the house just beyond it, thinking of the type of person who lives in it... It's one thing when he is pulling into his own drive - there is a sense of pride and satisfaction that overcomes him as he sets his sights upon what his hard work has produced - but seeing the production and fruitage of another’s has always instilled a childlike sense of awe within him. He’d often just sit in the drives of his teammates, admiring the physical payoff of their hard work but the sounds of a dog barking eventually pulls him out of his stupor and back into this reality - this certainly isn’t the home of one of his teammates. Lionel glances nervously towards the home of Cristiano’s neighbor, sighing in relief as he notices that there seems to be no movement in the house next door and that all of the main lights seem to have been turned off for the most part. He doesn’t want to run the risk of being seen and he's relieved at the discovery. He can already imagine the headlines and the speculations of the media, and every possibility makes him feel squeamish and nauseated. Deciding that the coast is clear, Leo rolls down his window and pulls out his phone, carefully dialling the numbers being displayed on his screen into the keypad. His breathing hitches as the gate shifts forward and he finds himself asking why he has even bothered coming here to begin with.

It isn’t that there is nothing to address, there is plenty for them to discuss, he just isn’t comfortable talking about it all quite yet. He is both nervous and fearful about how things can and may play out, worries that Cristiano may deny this thing between them. ((No)), Lionel corrects himself as he pulls his car into the drive, parking behind one of Cristiano’s more prolific vehicles in the event that Cristiano’s neighbor is a curious one. ((What’s between us is too real for anyone, even Cristiano, to ever deny)). He flicks off the engine, turns off his headlights, and allows the quiet of the darkness to accompany him for a few moments as he tries to compose himself. Sure, he can flirt easily with anyone over a simple little text message and excuse himself with ‘oh, sorry, wrong person’ at the first sign of rejection but in person, all of his vulnerabilities and insecurities will surely be exposed and he isn’t too sure if he will be able handle it. Being vulnerable before a god-like creature who is stripping solely to arouse you is one thing, falling to vulnerability under his gaze because you may have opened yourself up to feeling something for him is another. 

Leo does his best to suppress his thoughts as he slowly opens the car door and steps out, fully aware that if he hadn’t removed himself from the car as soon as possible he’d soon be turning around and well on his way to the airport, catching the first flight out of Madrid back to Barcelona. ((It’s going to go well)), Leo assures himself as he slowly walks up to the house and draws in a large breath of the Madrid air. He stares at the door for several minutes (too long) before he hesitantly moves to knock, leaving his fist hanging - unmoved - in the air. Knocking just doesn’t feel right, not after what they had shared, Leo thinks as his gaze falls on the handle. The metal of the handle feels cool under his touch and he holds his breath as he presses down on the opening mechanism, choking down a scream in surprise as the door actually falls open. ((Well, Cristiano has been expecting me)), Leo rationalizes as he steps into the massive home.

He finds that he's instantly greeted by pictures of Cristiano’s family on the wall and, in his nervous state, he would have looked at every one of them while memorizing every detail of them, but his senses are quickly overwhelmed by the scent of something, something with red and green bell peppers and onions, being fried in the kitchen. He follows his nose down the hallway, passing by several other walls of photos, and only comes to an abrupt halt when he is met with a golden labrador that is lazily sprawled in one of the hallways. He quickly recognises the golden dog as Caesar, Irina’s Labrador, and nervously smiles (as if trying to impress the animal) as the large creature lifts his head in Leo’s direction. Leo awkwardly offers the dog a small wave, earning himself a curious tilt of the head from the dog in response before the animal removes himself from the hallway without further regard for the footballer. Leo furrows his brows as the dog simply walks away, trying to figure out why the hell he had even waved at a dog. Leo thinks about turning around and leaving - he figures that Cris probably has surveillance and that he'll probably see that embarassing moment, it'll be for the best if he's dead by then - but the smell of the something cooking in the kitchen is enough to make him reconsider. He hasn’t eaten yet, hadn't eaten since before the game and his body is begging him for the savory scented carbs.

He finds that the kitchen is laying in wait just around another corner and Leo can’t help the small smile that graces his features as he finds Cristiano standing before the range, sliding a tapa of sorts out of the skillet. The Portuguese man seems to be completely at ease in his element; shocking. Leo had heard in an interview so many years ago that Cristiano was only great at making one thing in the kitchen - burnt toast, but watching the way he moves around in the kitchen Leo can’t help but disregard the ‘burnt toast’ comment of so many years ago as a thing of the past.

“You must be starving,” Cristiano calls out as he slices and dices some fresh tomatoes. His back is turned from where Leo is standing but he had felt the other's presence in the room almost instantly. “I usually have a whole pizza to myself after the game but I wasn’t sure if you liked pizza. I know, weird doubt to have but, you’re kind of a weird person,” Cristiano chuckles out as he throws a mischievous smile over his shoulder that only grows as Leo returns it. “I hope Caesar didn’t startle you. Irina had a business trip and she wanted me to look after him. I was going to have my mom take him when she came for Junior but it felt a little lonely without him here,” Cristiano shrugs as he carelessly tosses the tomatoes into a bowl.

Leo has already made his way to the island’s bar top and is already reaching for a plate of food by the time Cristiano finally turns around to properly meet his gaze. He looks beautiful, relaxed and bright, but Leo doesn't tell him that. He simply smiles and flicks his eyes between the man and the food. “If I die from eating this then I want my tombstone to read something along the lines of ‘killed by the second best because he could never properly surpass the best’.” Leo chuckles as he watches Cristiano furrow his brows together.

“That’s a lot of text for such a little tombstone of such a little man,” Cristiano answers flatly, the smile instead radiating from the orbs of his eyes, “besides, who’s to say I’d let them bury you. I have a garden, you know? I’m sure my vegetables would do well with the extra nutrients in the soil.”

If there had been anything remotely true about the ‘rivalry’ between himself and Cristiano, Leo would have been concerned, ((if)) there had been any kind of truth behind the tabloids favourite headline. Instead, he stabs at his food with his fork and shovels a generous helping into his mouth, chewing slowly as he stares directly into Cristiano’s eyes in a challenging manner. Piece of him wants to pretend as if he's choking on ‘the foul taste’ of the food but the way his eyes involuntarily roll to the back of his head as the flavors coat his tongue prevents him from doing so; his impulses betray him. 

He cleans his plate in record time and is eating a second helping of whatever delicious ‘poison’ Cristiano is serving him before they even start talking about his whole reason for being there. It isn’t that there had been silence between them before that moment, the conversation preceding it had merely been filled with football banter and mumbles of ‘I should haves’ about each of their respective games, but there had definitely been a feeling of there being an elephant in the room. “What happened, you know, between us back in Zurich?” It comes as a whisper and Leo has to force himself to look up into the brown eyes of the older man, finding himself consumed with the fear of what emotion he may find within them. He has used the word ‘us’ and if it has bothered Cristiano, the Portuguese man certainly isn’t showing it. “You know… the night after…”

Leo doesn’t get the chance to finish his question as he feels himself hushed by Cristiano’s soft lips, sharply inhales as they suddenly fall against his own. Warm thoughts, warm lips, warm feelings building deep within his core. It takes him a moment to process what is going on, that this is a kiss, but he responds as soon as he makes sense of it, realises that this isn’t the rejection he has been expecting, anticipating. He can feel Cristiano’s tongue running along his bottom lip, silently begging for entry, and he finds that he is in no position to deny the other of such a thing. His tongue dances with Cristiano’s, Cristiano’s tongue with his; at times it is quick and exploratory, yet rhythmic like samba before it transitions to movements slow and purposeful, precise like the most elegant of ballroom dancing. The kiss softens and intensifies, softens and intensifies. 

As it all becomes oh-so much, too much, Leo reaches out and pulls on Cristiano’s shoulders, tugging the taller man over and off of the bar top he had been leaning over to kiss him. He feels the stronger man yielding to him until both of their bodies are laying on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor just in front of the island. The line between dominance and submission begins to blur, they are simply two men appreciating one another as their hands begin to explore the bodys of one another, exchanging sighs and moans of contentment as their fingers rise and fall with the ridges and valleys, as their lips find newer, sensitive soft flesh to tease. He throws his legs over Cristiano’s body without giving it a second thought and rolls his hips against those of winger, moaning at the friction as he inwardly pleads for more. He feels the fabrics of his clothes leaving his skin and he can feel the warm flesh of Cristiano writhing beneath him to free himself of the fibers that still separate them. “Be-be-bedroom?”

-

“Xavi, hey. Quick question. Are you guys back in Barcelona already? Leo’s not here yet and I’m getting concerned. He’s not answering his phone either.”

Xavi rubs nervously at the back of his neck and quickly glances over to where Nuria is preparing food in their kitchen, making sure she isn’t paying attention to his phone conversation. He knows that Leo hadn’t been on the flight back home but he, as well as the club officials, had been assured by Leo that he had a prior engagement and would be in Barcelona shortly after them. That Antonella isn’t aware of this ‘engagement’ is concerning… but it isn’t his place. “We’re not back yet. There were issues and our flight had to be delayed. I’m looking at him now, though. Do you want to talk to him?” He feels guilty as he hears Thiago whining and crying in the background but he is confident that Leo has a great reason for not being there. He has to. He does his best to shake off Leo’s confession from the plane as they had made their way back from Zurich but, within the moment, it's all he can hear as it's the only doubt that he has that Leo had stayed behind in Madrid for less than noble purposes.

“No, Xavi. That won’t be necessary. Thank you, dear.”

As soon as he hears the line at the other end of the call disconnect, he pounds in another number. Listens as it ring, ring, rings.

“Xavi? You never call me anymore. What’s up man?”

“Hey, Iker. I know, it's been a while but... I think there’s a situation that needs to be dealt with. It's quite complicated. No, it's very fucking complicated and I need your help.”

-

Cristiano bites his lip nervously as he walks up to his house, spotting the strange car in his driveway instantly. He isn’t sure of how he is supposed to go about asking the other man about the text messages and the strange behaviour they seem to be indicative of but he knows that it needs to be done. He pushes the door open and makes his way towards the living room, frowning as he finds the room rather empty with the exception of Caesar who has made himself comfortable on the sofa. Remembering why he had left to begin with, Cristiano makes his way to the kitchen, chuckling softly as he finds the Argentinian passed the fuck out at the island with a dirty plate in front of him. “I see ((you)) didn’t miss the green onions,” Cristiano sighs out more to himself as he throws the green onion he had been carrying into the refrigerator and observes that the small striker had devoured well over three-quarters of the food he had prepared. “You can’t sleep like that though, Leo.” Cristiano states factually before throwing an arm over one of the smaller man’s shoulders and wrapping another around his waist to carry him to the bedroom. He is placing him into the bed and beneath the comforter when the other man starts to stir. Cris chuckles as Leo stretches, as eyes flutter open and owl-like eyes find him. He widens his eyes in response, smiles at his guest. “I hope you enjoyed your little nap. Your neck is probably going to be killing you tomorrow."

Leo smiles up at the Portuguese man, giggles at the reference of that sloppy blowjob and loses himself in his thoughts of how he can do this forever, how he can fall into Cristiano’s eyes for an eternity. It takes a few moments for reality to catch up with him but, as it does, he bolts up from bed, checking his watch as soon as he finds himself upright. “Fuck, I have to go. I have to catch my flight back to Barcelona before Antonella figures out that I didn’t fly back with the rest of the team,” Leo rushes out as he throws his legs out of the bed and runs his fingers through his hair as he looks frantically around the room; he doesn’t know what he's looking for as he brought nothing in. Perhaps his clothes but... ((Aw)). He finds that Cris has already redressed him. As soon as he realises that, he focuses on Cristiano who seems to be wearing a confused expression. He understands it though. Leo had just gotten there and it is rather upsetting to have to leave so soon after. He'll make it up to him, he promises.

There is something off about Leo but Cristiano can’t place it. He just isn't, he's... “I’m sorry I took so long...” Cristiano starts just before he's cut off by the Argentinian's giggles.

“I’m certainly not,” Leo chuckles just before he leans forward on his tip toes, gives Cristiano a quick peck on the lips, whispering his “I’ll see you later,” against the soft flesh of the older man.

Before Cristiano can even think to ask him what the hell that was all about, the other man has already left. “What the, what the fuck is this shit?”

-

20140116

Leo: Game against Getafe. Let’s see if you can handle me tonight

Cristiano: I’m confused again.

Leo: I’ll. See. You. Tonight.

Cristiano: Good because we really need to talk about what the hell is going on here.

Leo: That we do

\-------

20140117: 0100

Leo: Leaving the hotel. Be there in a few.

Cristiano: 281797

Cristiano: The code to the gate.

20140117: 0136

Cristiano: I ran out of green onions. I’m running next door to Fabio’s and will be back in a few. If you get to my house before I get back I left the door open. Make yourself comfortable.

Cristiano: Oh and look out for Caesar.

20140117: 0243

Fabio: Did I just see Lionel Messi leaving your house? What the hell?

20140117: 0300

Leo: I had fun ;) See you soon?

 

 


	7. We Float Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Bisexuality and Homoromanticism || Emotional Infidelity || Coming Out (kind of)

His phone hasn’t stopped going off since Leo had left earlier that morning but he has been far too overwhelmed by his own confusion to pay it any mind, the situation that seems to be developing between himself and the Argentine is baffling to say the very least and he is having something of a difficult time processing everything that has transpired between them. First there had been the text message from Leo just after the gala, and he chuckles. In retrospect, he finds it funny laced with traces of disturbing that a simple text message has brought him all of this trouble and grief. Then there had been the ones exchanged in the time between, each bringing a wave of confusion of their own; those odd yet strikingly flirtatious text messages. They had nicked away at him, overwhelmed his curiosity to the extent that he had opened the door for last night to happen. He still can't process it all. Last night...

Cristiano does his best to shake it all off, the look that had been in Leo’s eyes and the feelings of the Barcelona man’s lips pressing against his own, but he feels himself being pulled back under by the insurmountable "why’s" of the situation: Why is Leo doing this to him? Why now of all times? Why...? Why...? Why...? His morning shower is made unenjoyable by those "why's" and his breakfast has never tasted so bland, he has nearly walked out of the house on three different occassions in nothing but his underwear (not that there had been anything to be ashamed of) and he has already tried wearing his shirt as a pair of shorts. All of the questions that began to surface after last evening have taken his mind somewhere else and, as he finally walks outside of his home decently dressed, he can't help but glance up at the sky and silently ask his father to help him get his shit together. Help him to, not only survive the day’s training session, but to help him survive the storm he senses brewing on the horizon; the only question within his mind is whether the storm will be one of nature or if it will be produced by another source though his current situation seems to point to the latter as the most probable.

By the time he has worked up the energy, the courage, and the willpower to step away from his front door, Cristiano notices that Fabio is already waiting for him by the car, finds the blonde casually leaned up against the passenger’s side door with his nose buried in his phone. As the crunching of the grass announces his presence with each step he takes forward, he suddenly feels Fabio’s gaze fall on him and Cristiano can already sense the questioning look within it. Fabio and Leo’s first messages are the only ones he has read before he had made it a point to ignore his phone. “I don’t want to talk about it if that’s okay with you,” Cristiano mumbles as he opens his car door and slides inside, confining himself within it and enjoying that last few milliseconds of silence he’ll have. He knows Fabio well enough to know that his Portuguese compatriot isn’t going to drop the issue simply because he has asked him to...

...and sure enough, as soon as Fabio slides into the passenger’s seat the interrogation begins. “...but Cris, Lionel Messi was at your house last night. I mean, I know that you guys don’t hate each other and all of that other bullshit but since when do you guys meet up for midnight tea?” Fabio’s brows are furrowed together and, if that isn’t enough to state his transparent confusion then the three wrinkles embedded within his forehead certainly are. “It’s not my business, I get that but what if the media…”

Cristiano immediately begins to drown out Fabio’s voice at the thought. What if someone within one of the media organizations had spotted Lionel Messi in La Finca? ...leaving his house? How can he explain that? ((Fuck the media)), he thinks as his thoughts fall elsewhere. What if Sergio finds out that Lionel had been over at his house at such a late hour? After having seen the text messages Leo had sent him after the gala, he knows that Sergio will be less likely to believe whatever he chooses to tell him. Cristiano instantly hates himself for not having told Sergio about the texts after that day, for not telling the Spaniard that he had made arrangements with Lionel to discuss the intended meaning behind all of those curious texts. ((How could I have been so thick?))

As Cristiano tunes back in to the droning sound of Fabio’s voice his skin begins to crawl. He hasn't heard much of the one sided conversation that the blonde seems to be having but, what he had just heard has him concerned and has him rethinking his decision to tune out his neighbor. “What do you mean I need to call Iker --back--?” He hadn't even known that he had received any phone calls, the only sounds his phone has made from the time Lionel had left to that current moment were the consistent pinging sounds of all of his incoming text messages. “Why did Iker call me last night?" What reason would Iker have for calling ((him)) and... "How do you know that he called me, Fabio?”

Fabio shakes his head - partly in reproach as it is obvious that Cristiano hasn't been listening to him (dick), partly because he is as clueless as Cristiano is - as he glances over towards Cristiano who he finds fidgeting nervously with the steering wheel. “Iker called me earlier this morning and asked me if I had seen you last night. Said you were neither answering your phone nor returning his calls. I told him that you had come over for some green onions last night but that you had left after about fifteen minutes or so.” Fabio sighs as he glances back outside, studying the car parked in front of them as he finishes. He never was one for ‘snitching’ but he had been concerned for his friend and now feels obliged to let Cristiano know the rest of what he has told Iker. “I did tell him that I saw Leo leaving your house. Sorry about that, man. I was just worried, you know? He didn’t even sound surprised if that's any form of consolation.”

Cristiano would’ve gulped had there not been a knot in his throat and it suddenly feels as if the space within his car is shrinking, is becoming tighter and tighter. If Iker knows that Lionel had been over at his house last night... if his team captain knows that Lionel had been here then surely, surely his co-captain will have known that Lionel had been there. Sergio would know, would ((have)) to know as Iker will surely have needed his 'help' in figuring out where they are supposed to go from there and what they are supposed to do. They are practically the club's unofficial public affairs officers.

“Obviously,” Fabio continues as he straps himself in and buckles his seatbelt, “there’s something going on that I’m not supposed to know about, some secret squirrel type of shit, so I won’t pry. I just hope that you’re being careful with whatever’s going on Cristiano. You wouldn’t want something like this to backfire and…”

“It’s not what it looks like, Fabio.” Cristiano nearly shouts, interrupting the blonde mid sentence as he punches his steering wheel in fristration. If Fabio immediately thinks that whatever is going on between himself and Leo is… Then surely Sergio will be thinking the same? Cristiano feels his heart breaking within his chest at the mere thought of the look he suspects Sergio to have had held, concealed from the eyes of the keeper but still there, when Iker had told him that Leo was over at his house last night. It is all a simple misunderstanding though, and if he can just… No, Sergio will never believe it. Not after what they had just gone through. He would always try though and he will never, can never stop trying.

“I don’t care about what it is,” Fabio sighs out as he reclines his seat back a little, “as long as you’re being careful. We’re going to be late at being early if we don’t go now though.” The left back taps on his watch and offers his national team captain a compassionate smile as the latter flicks the car’s start button. “Wait a minute, what do you mean it’s not what it looks like? What does it look like?”

God bless Fabio.

+

The grays of the buildings are blurring with the grays of the streets, coming together to draw a striking contrast with the blue hue of the sky and the white clouds forming within it. The silence within the car is slightly awkward and uncomfortable but Cristiano knows that the comfort level will only worsen if he satisfies Fabio’s curiosity, so he keeps his attention focused on these things - these grays, blues, and whites - passing him by outside of the car. He is sure that there are people somewhere in the mix of colours and lines, out and about on their way to work or school or nowhere at all... but they have been ruled as non-existent, nothing more than secondary figures to his thoughts within the moment, his thoughts about the moments preceding those he is currently surrendering to Father Time: Leo’s lips brushing his, Fabio’s text message, the missed call from Iker that Fabio had told him about and the plausible content of those unopened voicemails.

He lets up on the accelerator a bit.

+

Iker’s car is already abandoned in the lot as he pulls in and he can’t think of anything worse. He finds himself suddenly wishing that he hadn’t ignored his phone, that he has already listened to those voicemails so that he has some sort of mental preparation for what he knows is coming his way at the very least. He doesn’t know what Iker knows outside of the fact that Leo had been over at his house last... 

A sudden calm overcomes him as he remembers that Iker doesn’t know much at all. He's smart enough, sure, and has a fantastic memory but as far as Cristiano’s private affairs... No one except he and Sergio knows. ((That's why Fabio had been so confused)), Cristiano thinks as he inwardly apologises for thinking of Fabio as thick. Iker has always believed his pretenses, probably thinks he's in a happy, monogamous, and thriving relationship with Irina and nothing more in those regards. He would never be one to automatically suspect any type of sexual relationship between himself and Lionel or any other guy for that matter. Iker probably just wants to warn him of the media and lecture him for being reckless.

Just before he can work up enough energy to laugh at himself for being so paranoid, he sees Sergio pull in just beside Iker’s car and watches as he steps (falls, he falls) out of it, reminding him of what he had truly been concerned about. From where he is sitting (alone in the car as Fabio has already left him to be with his thoughts as soon as they had pulled in) he can already spot and point out all of the indications that the Sevillan is upset, distressed: the slouch in his posture, the usually kept strands of his hair running in a thousand different directions, the ill fitted and poorly coordinated clothing. Well, his clothing is less coordinated than it usually is. It feels as if someone has just punched a hole into his sternum, has broken through and it feels, it feels as if the perpetrator is currently holding a suffocatingly tight grip around his heart. It feels too much, hurts too much simply because he loves too much. He hates seeing Sergio like this, defeated by nothing more than a misunderstanding and already he's seen it twice within a matter of a week. In that moment of time and space, he wants nothing more than for Sergio to understand, he needs for him to understand.

Cristiano throws his car door open and steps outside of it, immediately starts making his way towards the young Spaniard who is simply standing by his own car in thought. He needs to talk to him, needs to make him understand before…

“Oh, there you are!” Iker’s voice breaks through the otherwise silence of the parking lot and forces Sergio to look up and in Cristiano’s direction for a few moments... but he quickly looks away. “I saw Fabio and was wondering where you were,” the keeper laughs heartily as he jogs up to Cristiano and playfully pops him on the arm. “You weren’t answering my calls and I was getting worried, we both were,” Iker smiles as he points towards Sergio, of whom isn't meeting the gaze of either of the other men but is already heading in the direction of the voice. “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Cristiano can't look away from Sergio as the other man drags his feet towards him and it kills him that the Sevillan can't seem to look at him. He wants to grab him right then and there, to hold him in his arms all while swearing to never let him go. He wants to assure him that this, this is all a fucked up misunderstanding and that there is nothing, will never be anything going on with Leo and himself but he, but he can’t. Not now. Not with Iker watching. “I was getting some pretty weird messages from Leo and I had invited him over last night so we could talk about it. Nothing more.”

Sergio scoffs and shakes his head incredulously as Cristiano’s statement reaches his ears. He's torn between actions and words, striking the other man with a fist because ((how can he be so audacious, so cruel)) or a string of insults. He chooses neither, stares at Iker's trainers instead. They're new. “That’s not what Leo’s saying.”

The Portuguese does his best to find Sergio’s eyes but the eyes of the other man are still trained on the ground, refusing to look at either of the two men before him. He wants to force him to see the folly in all of this, to see him... “What do you mean that’s not what Leo’s saying?" His voice doesn't break but if it does, if it does it's only because he's overwhelmingly defeated. He's tired of this, tired of Leo. He wants this to end. "What the fuck is he saying?”

Iker sighs as he places a gentle hand on Cristiano’s shoulder. “You don’t have to lie to us, Cristiano. You know that we’ll accept you no matter what. We know everything.” Iker glances over his shoulder to ensure that the three of them are truly alone in the parking lot but he whispers anyway (because you never know). “I spoke to Xavi last night and, apparently, Leo told him everything." His eyebrows are pressed as high up on his forehead as they'll go, eyes wider than his grandmother's hips. "He told him about the night you two, you know, got freaky in Zurich and about how he had cheated on Antonella with you." Iker tilts his head curiously but presses on. "Suddenly he prolongs his stay in Madrid, is spotted at your house and, I mean…”

“That’s not true,” Cristiano nearly shouts as he hears the allegations being made, materializing in the real world - his world - already creating an unseen distance between himself and Sergio. His eyes never leave the top of Sergio’s head; he needs for the Sevillan to believe him, he needs for Sergio to understand that he would never betray him with anyone, let alone Lionel Messi. He needs to be seen, to be heard, to be believed. “I would never…” If it sounds like he's pleading, it's beacuse he is. With Sergio, with The Fates, with Leo's fucked up imagination. ((Stop. Stop. Please make it stop)).

“Denying your natural urges isn’t healthy, Cristiano," Iker scolds the Portuguese man though he takes a measured step back to distance himself from the breaking man (just in case). “If you’re gay or bisexual or pansexual or whatever… It doesn’t matter. We support you. I support you. Sergio supports you..." he steps forward again, places a gentle hand on the other's broad shoulder, "... but you need to support yourself, to embrace yourself. I mean, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, you are who you are, but you do happen to be in a relationship. He happens to be in a relationship. You both have children to think of. Do you really think that you’ll be teaching them the right thing, instilling the right morals through infidelity? I’m not here to tell you what you need to do. I'm not your father. I'm your captain, your friend, but if it were me...? I would definitely consider calling it off with either Lionel or Irina. It isn’t healthy and it isn’t fair to either one. Especially not to Irina and Antonella. Can you imagine the damage that would be done if the media caught wind of this? Not only to them but how this sort of affair could affect you? You just rebuilt your image, Cris. Just promise me that you'll think about it.” Iker nods his head in finality as he finishes and pulls Cris in for a tight hug before he starts walking towards the training facility. “You coming, Sergio?”

“No,” Cristiano answers for the other Spaniard, silently begging for him to just look up. ((See me. See me)). “Is it okay if I talk to him alone for a bit, Iker?”

Iker simply shrugs his shoulders in response and makes his way back into the Cuidad, thinking about how he needs to call Xavi to let him know that ((holy shit)) Leo’s admittance was, in fact, true. He had laughed as Xavi had told him about the conversation he had had with Leo, immediately deciding that Cristiano isn’t one for such antics while dismissing any notion that the forward is anything but straight, feminine but straight. Sure, he is still laughing but now he is simply laughing at himself for having been so blind.

“Sergio, I swear. It’s not, it's not what they’re making it out to be,” Cristiano pleads with the top of Sergio’s head. He reaches out for the cheek of the Sevillan, finds surprise as he feels his hand being slapped away. He wants to shake the defender. ((See me. See me)). “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“How could I?” Sergio scoffs as he finally meets Cristiano’s curious gaze, eyes bloodshot, made red and dry by all of the tears he had cried before working up the courage to go to training that day. The courage to see Cristiano. He just... “How could I believe you, Cris? Leo wouldn’t just make that kind of shit up!”

Cristiano had thought the same; Leo isn’t the kind of person to go around spreading lies of that magnitude but, what is being said simply isn't true. He wants to explode but shattering sounds and eyes that burn inform him that he's doing the opposite. “I know, he wouldn’t but I swear to you, Sergio, nothing happened between us." Cristiano tries to appeal to the other man's sense of reason as he steps forward, trying to close the gap between them. "Tell me, Sergio", he whispers, "tell me how he could’ve been with me that night in Zurich when I spent the night here with you? How could I have been in two places at once, Sergio? You remember, I know you remember that weird text message. I know you do, you just don’t want to. You want to believe I did this that way you could feel better about…”

“About what, Cristiano? That way I could feel better about what?” Sergio takes a step back from Cristiano, shakes his head in disbelief because ((how could he)) bring that up right now? ((Shift. Shift. Shift)). “I knew you didn’t forgive me. I knew you couldn’t but I was stupid, stupid, stupid,” Sergio repeats as he pounds the palm of his hand against his forehead, “enough to believe that you had. And then you go and do this to me and I…”

“I didn’t do anything, Sergio. I swear. I invited him over to talk about those stupid fucking texts. That’s all. I didn’t even spend that much time with him, I was at Fabio’s when he showed up and he had fallen asleep by the time I came back. He woke up, kissed me, and left…”

“He kissed you?!" Suddenly, the need for discretion flies out the window as emotions, dangerous and powerful emotions - jealousy, anger, betrayal - takes to the front in this war of he said, she said. "I thought you said that nothing happened, Cristiano?! You swore it!”

“I swore that I didn’t do anything and I didn’t, Sergio! Goddamnit! I can’t control his actions! I just... You can see the text messages, do you want my phone? Please Sergio, you have to believe what I'm telling you…" Cristiano feels himself die a little as Sergio looks away from him, his voice slowly dying with his spirit to a little over a whisper. "Don't you trust me, Sergio?" He's breaking. "I've never given you a reason to doubt me, ever, and I can’t, I can’t..." ((Is the idea of me really so terrible that you'd choose the words of a stranger over my own)). "Please, Sergio." Cristiano quietly begs, "Please just believe me. That’s all I’m asking of you. This is all just so fucked up and I can’t, I can't do any of this...”

“You’re right." Sergio whispers, interrupting the winger. "This is fucked up and I don’t think I can do it either.” Sergio’s voice is flat yet there is a certain bitterness about it, an edge. His words are minimal but well chosen, they cut through Cristiano like a knife and he knows it. "This is unhealthy and this isn't fair, just like Iker said."

“You’re, you're breaking up with me?” ((...and they lose their gravity)).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gravity - Papa Roach ft. Maria Brink](https://youtu.be/tIgtaM7OV4g)


	8. On A Scale of Zero to Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonella Character Building / Depth of Psychosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Psychosis || Emotional Infidelity

Leo has been laying in bed, listening to the steady, rhythmic breathing of Antonella and thinking about his recent struggles when he first becomes plagued by the theory, the notion that what he is going through could be contagious. His resolution comes to him shortly afterwards in the form of a memory; his epiphany coming with the nostalgic recollection of the first time he had ever put on a jersey for Barcelona, the first time he had felt the weight of it’s crest against his chest, the first time the fabric and his skin became one. It may not have been the answer but, as he sits up in the bed and throws the covers from off of him, he thinks it's definitely a step in the right direction at the very least. There is no little voice in his head begging him to think it through (so he must be right), no one awake to stop him, and nothing he wants more than to remove the possibility of this ever happening to Thiago.

He shivers as his bare feet touch the floor and he does his best not to release a groan out of pain as he reaches down to pick his basketball shorts from up off of the floor. As soon as he rises from his seated position and shifts all of his weight onto his feet, his calves begin to beg for him to return to his bed and his thighs begin to scream at him in reprimand but his mind, his thoughts, his fears are stronger and more fierce than any amount of post-match pain. He makes his way down the hallway as quietly as he can, only pausing just long enough to adjust the thermostat (because (fuck, it's cold)), and sighs as he finally finds the outside of Thiago’s door. He places his hand on the knob, hesitates just long enough to glance outside through the window at the end of the hall, and silently pushes the door open.

He slowly runs his hand against the wall closest to him in search of the dimmer switch and turns the plastic knob until the room is filled with just enough of the dim yellow hue to keep him from running into the walls and glances over towards his son’s toddler bed, smiling gently as he hears the little boy’s gentle snores; he can see that it's still dark out and Leo is quite certain that his little human being won’t be stirring anytime soon. He goes to take a step further into the room but stops the falling of his foot just in time, moves it to the side to expose the ever so dangerous Lego laying directly in its path, those mines of Satan. His eyes dart around the room as he takes in all of the hazards, though within that moment, with nearly all of Thiago’s toys littering the floor, it looks like an obstacle course or a death trap more than it does a little boy’s room. It's just a matter of selecting the injury that'd earn him the least amount of chuckles in the ER; pulling a hammy as he stretches over a river of Legos, spraining an ankle on the Batman set, strangled by dangling teddies... Oh, the options are endless, how will he ever decide.

Getting to Thiago’s dresser has a difficulty that can be equated to having to dribble past four defenders without any form of support, the difficulty level of that situation for anyone that wasn’t him, that is. As he reaches the dresser without incident, Leo thanks God and inwardly feels as if he deserves a trophy of sorts for having achieved such a feat; he didn’t even know that Thiago had so many legos and the number of Army men he has just laying around is truly incredible for someone who is but a foot or three high. Remembering that he is in there for something specific rather than to do a toy survey, Leo reaches down and picks up a clear storage bin that had once been used to store the toys that currently cover the floor, throwing out the few little toys that remain in it just before he places it on the top of the dresser. With a deep inhale, he pries open the third drawer and starts removing all of its contents.

The first piece of fabric he pulls out of the drawer has been sewn with the white and sky blue colors of his national team with the name “Thiago” ironed on the back of it above the number ten. He remembers the first national team jersey he had received, it had been from his father and had the name Maradona ironed on to the back of it, the number ten below the name of legend. Within that moment, Leo’s thoughts fall to Maradona - all the pressure he had been put under and the drug addiction that probably had something to do with it. Without another thought, Leo throws the little jersey into the bin and pulls out the next set of colors, the colors of the blaugrana with the name “Thiago” in bold across the back and that same number ten below it. He stares at it admiringly, remembering his very first Barcelona jersey, the memory of the first one that had his name and his number printed on the back of it. He smiles for a moment before he remembers the first time he put the latter of the two on, his thoughts returning to the very memory that threw him out of bed. He gently rubs his fingers over the crest and brings it to his lips just before he tosses them into the bin. The ones from Iniesta, Valdes, Xavi - all of them fall on one another, together, into the bin. He pulls out the reds of Liverpool (a jersey from Mascherano), Manchester United (a jersey from Anderson), and Bayern (a jersey from Pep for Thiago’s first birthday) and turns each and every one of them around - “Thiago 10”, “Thiago 10”, “Thiago 10” - thowing them into the bin one by one. Manchester City jerseys followed, as well as jerseys from every other club from all across Europe, each claiming Thiago as one of their own, as their own number ten, each one making their way into the bin. Leo hesitates for a moment as he pulls the last jersey out from within the drawer, smiling as he runs his fingers over the pure white fibers of the Real Madrid jersey; he doesn't burst into flames and is somewhat shocked given what he's heard. He does’t remember receiving this one though he is certain that it must have come from Di Maria (or, more likely, Pipita as he is the most mischievous of the two) and must have been received by Antonella. He is about to toss it into the bin when he notices that the back of the jersey is completely empty of any and all text, that there isn’t even a number on the back of it. Leo is studying the jersey further, trying to figure out why someone would send Thiago a blank jersey, when he sees the small gift tag attached to the jersey's inner tag:

> _It's the game that makes the number legend_
> 
> _It's his game that makes the name forever reverend_
> 
> _You will make your own name_
> 
> _Rewrite the rules. Make your own game_

-

“Leo.”

Lionel takes a moment to glance up towards the heavens, as a soft voice seems to be emerging from just behind the gray clouds that have been forming above him… ((Impossible)), he thinks dismissively as he silently reprimands himself for allowing the interference to distract him and redirects his attention back on to the game at hand. Within moments, the ball has fallen graciously to his feet and he takes off running with it immediately, without any form of hesitation. He is passing by the first defender within mere seconds and finds his way through two more with ease. There is just one more defender in front of him and he knows that getting beyond him will leave him one on one with the goalkeeper, an ideal scoring situation. It seemed easy enough; it's just a question of nutmeg him or dribble around him, just get by him somehow... until he actually tries to do it. Rather than bursting forward with sudden speed, he feels as if he is being held back, as if there are weights that have suddenly been attached to his calves. Panic sets in. He knows that he wants to go either right or left but the newly discovered weights have him going in the only direction he minds going in - down, down, down he falls. He angrily pounds on the pitch as he collides with it, forcing the browns through the greens, groaning as he hears his teammates yelling at him in agitation but, almost instantly, the yelling has stopped. Curiously, he glances away from the green of the grass and up to see who has taken the ball from off of him. He can only see another man's legs from his current position on the pitch and that is all he needs to see as the man bamboozles the three defenders that have come down on the ball as soon as Leo had lost it, as the other man nutmegs a fourth defender as he brings the ball to the inside, as the other man strikes the ball with his right foot and drills it into the back of the net like a rocket. The white noises goes wild, deafens. His teammates go wild… Leo pulls himself from up off of the pitch, brushing all of the loose dirt off of himself in the process, and looks in the direction of the mystery goalscorer. As soon as he is able to get a [hardly] decent look at him, his heart jumps up and into his throat and he is certain that he is in danger of choking on it. What is he doing here and why, why the fuck is he wearing his colors, his jersey?

Within that very moment, the goalscorer looks into his direction and pulls his own eyebrows together. Words tumble past lips. “Who the hell are you?” Blaugrana players laugh as the man asks the question and he looks to them as they egg him on. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

“Leo, baby, I know it’s your recovery day but you have to wake up eventually,” Antonella sighs out as she shakes the still sleeping man. She usually never wakes Leo on the days of his recovery but he had gotten in so late after his match in Madrid that she isn’t even sure that he has eaten yet. Worried that he may be famished, she presses on. “Come on, honey, I made breakfast and I didn’t even burn it this time! I even used one of those recipes you have on the refrigerator! You know, the ones high in carbs.”

Within moments - the game, the audience, Cristiano - they have all disappeared and are quickly replaced with the blinding light of the sun. “Damn it, Antonella,” Leo sighs out as he throws a pillow over his face to help him shield away the light, “I thought I had asked you to stop opening the drapes in the morning. Waking up to that kind of light makes me question whether or not I’m still alive or if I’m standing in the middle of an eight lane highway with a fucking eighteen wheeler about to hit me head on.”

Antonella giggles beautifully as she watches Leo burrow himself further into the bed, adding sheets and comforters to support the pillow he is using to shield away the light. “I swear, Leo,” she chuckles as she makes her way over to the opened French doors, “you’re a little vampire. It serves as the perfect explanation as to why you’re so pasty, love. You’re afraid of the sun.” She closes the doors and draws the drapes together, turns back towards where Leo is (("I see you!")) peeking out from beneath the covers. A smile creeps onto her face as she makes her way back to the bed, pushing the covers back on her side of the bed so she can crawl beneath them. “You know,” she whispers as she leans over and gently kisses Leo on the lips, “Thiago is still sleeping.” She drags her lips away from the footballer’s and places a heavier kiss on his neck, lapping her tongue just over the top of his pulsing carotid. “I bet if we’re quiet, we can have a little mommy daddy time.”

Leo tenses up as he feels Antonella’s lips over his collarbone. “Uhm, I just… I’m still kind of exhausted from the game last night,” Lionel offers as he gently presses Antonella off of him, silently hoping she doesn’t feel the swelling in his groin. Ever since the first time he and Cristiano had become intimate, being with Antonella simply feels wrong. Every time she had kissed him, each time his eyes would close, he would imagine that those were Cristiano’s lips in the place of hers, it was Cristiano’s hand rubbing him through his pants; it was always Cristiano. “I just, I just don’t think I’m up for it and I, I know I couldn’t, you know, satisfy you in this state.” Leo stutters out as Antonella gives him a curious look.

“It’s okay, baby,” Antonella sighs out as she throws one of her legs over the top of the forward, taking his lips with her own before slowly kissing her way down his body, “I’ll do all of the work. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Just relax.”

He has never answered his phone quicker in his life. He doesn’t even take the time to check the caller ID as he doesn’t even care about who it is; whoever it is has saved him from drowning in guilt and regret. “H-H-Hello.”

“Hey, Leo.” Neymar’s voice sounds through the phone. “I’m going to breakfast this morning and I was wondering if, you know, maybe you’d come with me.” He is beyond nervous, hands shaking, palms sweating as he speaks and he is fairly confident that the other is able to pick up on it. “You know, to keep the paparazzi from attacking me,” he adds insecurely with a nervous laugh. “If not…”

“Nope! I mean, I’ll be there. I’ll, I’ll come over to your house and we can go from there. I just need to get out of bed and throw on some decent clothes. I can be there in thirty?” As he hears Neymar agreeing to the plan, he turns towards Antonella, who has started pouting, and shrugs. “I’m sorry, dear. I really am. He needs me and I, I just can’t let him down. He's going through some pretty heavy stuff. Maybe, maybe we can have mommy daddy time later?”

Antonella angrily climbs off of Leo and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She presses her back against the door and locks it just before she slides down to the floor and breaks down in tears. She had sensed the change in Leo immediately at the gala, knew something had been wrong after he had gone missing at the afterparty but she couldn’t put her finger on it no matter how hard she had tried. Leo's become avoidant and he hardly touches her anymore and when she touches him... He always comes up with some lame excuse as to why it can’t progress. He couldn't let down his teammates, he claims, but he has been getting pretty good at letting her down lately. Then last night had happened. She had wanted to believe Xavi, and she had almost gone to bed in peace but she knew where the other's loyalties were. One quick phone call to Dinora and she knew that the team had arrived back in Barcelona hours before Leo had. She told herself that she would keep trying anyway, that she was willing to do anything to make this work, but it seems as if she will be the only one trying.

She can hear Leo dressing himself on the other side of the door and wonders if he even cares that he is hurting her with his sudden change, if he has even noticed how he is affecting her. She wonders if he is thinking of her within that moment, if he is standing beside the door with his fist hanging just in front of it trying to figure out whether he should knock or not. After a few moments, she finds her feet and turns to face the woman in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes and bleeding mascara, ((“living the dream of every covergirl”)), she silently jokes as she turns on the faucet and splashes water onto her face, (("a perfect ten")). She pulls the hand towel off of its hook and presses her face into it just before she tosses it on the countertop and opens the door, finding nothing more than empty spaces awaiting her.

As much as she wants to break down in tears again, Antonella, instead, makes her way out to the kitchen and begins making herself a fruit salad while thinking of the food she had wasted in some sort of lame attempt to get any kind of attention from Leo. (("You're a horrible cook," "This is actually decent", "It's a good thing you have your looks")). Anything would've been better than this, this silence she has been growing accustomed to over the past few days. She takes her fruit salad into the living room and flicks on the television as she waits for Thiago to wake up on his own, stopping as she notices ash in the fireplace; sure, it had been a bit nippy lately but neither she nor Leo ever use the fireplace. As she draws closer to it, she notices that there aren't any signs that it had been wood that had been burned but there are fragments of whatever had been burned remaining, charred among the ashes but they seemed to be of some sort of cloth rather than of wood. Antonella takes her fork and pokes it into the fireplace, picking up one of the pieces of fabric as she withdraws it, immediately recognizing the little piece of cloth as the letter "T" from one of Thiago's Barcelona jerseys. 

 

 


	9. Hello, Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Irina Shayk Character Building / The Seven Rules~~ Apparently I can't count.  
>  Irina Shayk Character Building / The Five Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Sexual Content (Non-Explicit) || Bisexuality and Homoromanticism

((‘The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.')) She has never been familiar with such doubts and has always felt deep within her core that she and they will forever remain strangers. Most would look at such a view as perhaps arrogant, a bit narcissistic, unrealistic even - ((we all have our own set of doubts and insecurities)) - but anyone who knew her would never use such terms, they would rather settle for the phrase ‘that’s so Irina’. She was beautiful, ((is)) beautiful, has been told so for the entirety of her life, and she has always believed it, will always believe it. She’s never found a reason to doubt her connection with the word: she knows that eyes wouldn’t fall on her as often as they did if there was nothing special to see, that the media wouldn’t scrutinize her every move and wardrobe choice if they had better women to obsess over, and that those far less blest than she would be far less critical of her if there was no threat… No, she never had a reason to doubt that men would close their eyes every night and dream of the curve of her ass or the sultry look in her eyes, that men would make love to their women while secretly fantasizing it was her skin they were touching and that it was her moans they were eliciting. No, it wasn’t arrogance nor was it narcissism; insecurity is simply a poison that she makes certain to keep at such a distance that the two of them would never become familiar.

Irina sighs as the car driver pulls up to the gate and gently taps on the driver’s shoulder, indicating that she’ll get out here rather than have him pull up into the drive; she knows that Caesar is probably outside as it still seems to be a bit early for Cristiano to have returned from the morning’s training session and she doesn't not feel like chasing the retriever for miles down the road should he get out -- ((not in these heels)). She watches as the driver puts the car in park and removes himself from his seat, turning to kindly open the door for her with a smile plastered on his face, and she smiles a bit to herself. Irina purposefully extends her leg further than absolutely necessary and plants one of her six inch, red heels firmly into the pebbled drive, her second following shortly after. When she is finally standing at her full six foot five inches, she graces the now red-faced man with the curve of her smile and his cheek with the red paint of her lips. Pulling the only bag she has brought with her out of the trunk, she waves a sweet goodbye to the blushing Spanish driver, and watches as he distractedly attempts to make his way out of La Finca.

No, she has never been given a solid reason to doubt herself. 

After giggling for a moment, Irina pounds the gate’s code into the keypad, haphazardly glancing around Cristiano’s yard, looking for any indication of her dog’s presence, any trace of the golden fur. After a few moments of careful inspection, she decides that Caesar is probably off playing or sleeping elsewhere in the yard (the number of times Cris had called to tell her that he had come home to find Caesar dripping wet from having 'fallen' into the swimming pool is enough for her to assume that that was where she’d find him if that is her intent), and finally presses in the last of the numbers, quickly slipping inside of the gate as it slowly opens. She nearly falls over from her self-amused laughter at least three times before she finally reaches the safety of her boyfriend’s front door, forcing her key into the entry as soon as it is within arm’s length. She needs to add “running in heels to avoid my hyperactive dog” to her skill set on her resume when she gets back to New York.

She is still laughing at herself as she finally stumbles inside. Without a second thought, Irina immediately makes her way to Cristiano’s bedroom, carelessly tossing her purse onto the couch as she walks past the living room and takes in the familiar surroundings, smiling as it all seems so comfortably domestic. She sees some of her magazines mixed in with Cristiano’s sports journals and Junior’s coloring books in the family room, some of her movies by his on the entertainment center heavily outnumbered by the vivid colors of Junior’s animated films and cartoons, her clothes in the hamper by the laundry room mixing in with white Gucci shirts and quite small Iron Man tee-shirts. Her apartment is rather empty in comparison. It hasn't been long since she has last been there (in fact, it had only been a couple of days since she had flown out of Madrid wrapped around the arm of Cristiano), but every time she comes back, regardless of the time between, she finds herself asking why she had left to begin with. The last time she left, she wasn't even given enough time in between her flights to squeeze in a proper form of congratulations for Cristiano on his Ballon d'Or achievement; as soon as she had de-boarded in Madrid she was boarding another plane that would carry her far off, whispering promises of atonement in Cristiano’s ear as she left him in the company Sergio and Jorge. She had always been okay with it, the distance and the hectic schedules they both seem to have; she could never return, could never miss Cristiano and Junior if she had never left to begin with. That had always been her reasoning for why she stayed in New York even though the people she loves are here, in Spain, but now her reasoning is starting to show fault. She can feel another kind of distance forming between herself and Cristiano, a distance that exceeds the mathematical calculations of miles and kilometers.  

Irina shakes off the thought for a moment as she rounds the last corner and finds herself standing in the door frame of Cristiano’s bedroom, smiling softly as she looks at the made bed. When they had first gotten together, it had been nearly impossible to get either of them out of it and now, getting Cristiano into it was proving to be more of a problem. She can never blame him for such a thing though; she knows that he is distracted, that he puts himself under a lot of pressure, and that even the act of having sex and the calories lost in its execution has to be accounted for in some way. He is a professional athlete, an excellent one at that, she simply wishes she could find the switch to turn it off every once in a while.

She tosses her single piece of luggage onto the bed and checks herself in the mirror, smiling in satisfaction as she finds that her make up has held up on the hours long flight. She redirects her attention to the suitcase on the bed shortly after, smiling mischievously as she begins to undress while making her way to the bed: she easily slips the oversized shirt off of her small frame and throws it into the hamper in the corner of the room, her heels, leggings, and undergarments joining it shortly after. Irina pulls the black laced panties out of her suitcase, smiling as she gently slides the small piece of fabric over her smooth, tanned skin, repeating the action with the garter belt and stockings she has packed immediately after. Another pair of heels under her feet and a tighter fitting bra later (front snap, of course) and she is ready.

She had promised Cristiano that she would make up the evening they had lost... and she had never been one to break her promises.

-

He can’t remember the last time he has pushed himself this hard but he shrugs it off; the pain he has put his body through has been nothing compared to the pain within him. He just wants it all - the pain, the pressure, this week - to end. Eyes had been on him throughout the training session, pressure building from the tension, a pressure that makes standing in the midst of the Bernabéu faithful feel like a stroll through the park. Iker's invested himself in small smiles of assurance and upright thumbs. He smiles everytime the keeper finds him, he lies everytime. Marcelo and Pepe keep their distance, look at him as if he's grown two heads, though he's certain the looks and the distance are owed to his unusually snappy attitude. Fabio just laughs as if they're exchanging some inside joke simply because he's Fabio and he simply widens his eyes in reply, turns up a corner of his lips. And then there's Sergio.

The times he does manage to find Sergio’s eyes it is because the other man has already been looking at him with looks that read as lost, confused, hurt, sometimes vacant. It's as if he's looking through him. The Spaniard refuses to meet his gaze any other time and he's so, he's... He's never pushed himself so hard in his life, he's never experienced this much pain in his entire life. The session ends. His affliction endless.

Cristiano throws his car door open and climbs out, groaning as he catches sight of Caesar charging at him from across the yard. He seems to be running in slow motion, soaked with slobber dripping out of his mouth. He is fairly certain that he'll fall if Caesar decides to jump on him and he doesn’t know that he has the willpower to fight the dog off of him to keep himself from being buried like a bone. Hell, he wants to be buried. Bring it, Caesar… “Hey, Caesar!” Unfortunately, Caesar only “attacks” when he senses that it's unwanted; he almost seems disappointed to have been greeted with false enthusiasm. Sighing in defeat, Cristiano makes his way inside, frowning as he finds that the door had been left unlocked; he had been so distracted this morning, he is honestly surprised he had remembered to close the door. Brushing it off, he throws his bag onto the couch as he passes the living room and makes his way down the hallway; he just wants to sleep forever and never wake up again - or, sleep until Junior comes home later that night.

"Hello, stranger."

> _Never physically respond to her on impulse. Never “fuck” her out of lust._

As soon as Cristiano sees her (and after the curses in surprise have died down) he realises that sleep won’t be coming to visit as soon as he has originally anticipated. She was beautiful, ((is)) beautiful; from the shape of her body, to the curve of her smile, to the reason behind the smile… As she looks up from the bed in ((that)) way and gives him ((those)) eyes, he can’t suppress the smile that starts forming on his face despite the complete absence of emotion he is still feeling on the inside. He may have been dead emotionally but his body is still very much alive, still responding physically and the physical part of his nature wants to maul her, to put his lips on every exposed piece of her flesh, to mark her as his with trashy hickeys and bite marks… But she isn’t his, she isn’t a piece of property to begin with but even so, she is no more his than he is hers. So he stands there, simply staring at her as he takes in every aspect of her beauty. She is art.

> _Never have sex with her without protection._

She is undressing him with her eyes as he slowly pulls off his clothing and makes his way over to the nightstand, and he intends on giving her the full show despite the lack of music within him. He always gives her a show: every time they kiss, every time they share a smile or a laugh, every time he takes her out to eat or to watch a sports match - a show, that's what he, ((they)) are all about. She's simply unaware she's been cast. He undoes the button on his pants as he reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a condom, eyes trained on Irina’s nose as he does so, earns himself a satisfied smile from Irina as he has smartly drawn one with “pleasure ridges for her”. Sure, he is technically free to engage in intercourse as he pleases but just because Sergio doesn’t want to be his anymore, it doesn’t stop him from being Sergio’s... and only Sergio’s.

Cristiano peels his tight fitted jeans from off of his body as he slowly makes his way over to the bed and climbs onto his knees, moaning as Irina anxiously palms him through the fabric of his boxer-briefs and places her full lips on his neck, nipping and sucking on his collar bone as her tongue laps over his flesh. It will drive him absolutely wild if she just moves her lips one inch to the right, that’s where his sweet spot is. Sergio knows where all of his little sweet spots are, down to the millimeter… Cristiano shakes off the sudden wave of thoughts as they threaten to bring tears with them and thoughtlessly pulls himself out of his boxer-briefs, feeling Irina’s smile against his neck as he does so.

> _It’s okay for you to enjoy it, you’re human, but don’t cross the line._

Her mouth quickly replaces the hand she has been holding over his groin and he loses himself in the hot wet sensation as Irina runs her tongue along his length, flicks her tongue at all the right times, applies the perfect suction as her mouth wraps around his head. He can feel Irina slowly starting to take him in and though part of him aches for it, another piece of him holds on to the mantra ‘she’s not him’, ‘she’s not him’, ‘she’s not him’, dulls the pleasure. It's almost as if she has come into his life after Sergio had in the way that she will always come after him within his heart.

The soft flesh of the insides of her cheeks pulls him back in, the thick wetness of her saliva coating his length. His eyes roll to the back of his head and all of his worries begin to blur in these moments. He is actually quite certain he isn't certain at all of even his own name but he doesn't need certainties when he's with Irina. He slips and he feels the soft tissue at the back of Irina’s throat and as much as wants to moan and erupt from that sensation alone, the teeth he feels grazing him on the way there help in keeping that 'need' sequestered for a while longer. ((Why are you doing that?)) He is hoping that it will be a brief one time thing but the painful scraping continues; he's not going to complain as she's willing but he definitely thinks that he can show her a thing or two.

Her lips leave his groin soon after and slowly find their way onto his for the first time in days. He has already forgotten how soft they are, how comfortable her lips feel against his, how easy it is to lose himself to them. As his eyes close and as he feels himself giving in to those soft lips of morphine, as he cups her breasts gently in his grasp and as he finds the curve of her ass with his other hand, all of his thoughts of Leo and Sergio disperse to nothingness and he and Irina begin to blend together as one.

> _Avoid emotionally intimate positions and positions in which she has full control. Never make love to her._

She is on top of him, head tilting back in euphoric satisfaction, eyes somewhere in the back of her head, with a leg on either side of him as she rolls her shapely hips against him. He has always been wary of this position when he finds himself with Irina; it is his favorite when he finds himself in the company of Sergio for a reason: it happens to be one of the most intimate, the most dangerous when you’re in a situation like his. He can hear her moaning his name sometimes (when she can figure out how syllables work together to form words and names) in her euphoric state, her mouth slightly parted and gasping for small intakes of air when the sensations of him in her are too much for words. His hands are planted firmly on her hip bones and his eyes never once met hers, he purposefully keeps them trained on ‘them’, watching as he disappears within and then reappears only to disappear into her again. For him, this is definitely the hardest part of having sex with Irina, having what is supposed to be such an intimate connection with another human being with no real intimacy at all. He wants to look into her eyes - her soul - let her know that she can be loved for the person within them and not just for the body holding them; he can’t though, because he isn’t that person. He isn't that person for her at least.

Cristiano can already feel her reaching her climax in the way that she tightens around him, in the way that her thigh muscles begin to tremor against his waist, and in the way that her back begins to arch under the waves of toecurling pleasure. At the verge of reaching his own climax, he thoughtlessly reaches up and shoves his fingers through her thick, dark hair and gently brings her face down to his. He presses his forehead against hers as she frantically tries to finish herself off on top of him and he takes her lips with his, her tongue with his. He does his best to focus on his breathing, anything to distract him. Anything to keep him from...

> _If you surrender yourself completely to her on a level that exceeds those physical in nature, don’t bother coming back to me._

He doesn't see Irina's face when he reaches his climax. He doesn't want to see her face, can't bear to see her face. He gives in. To his thoughts. To his memories. To his emotions. He simply quits within that moment, becomes too tired to fight it any longer... No, he doesn't see Irina's face when he climaxes while screaming Sergio's name and he doesn't know that he can ever bear to see her face again. 

-

((‘The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.)) She has never been familiar with such doubts ~~and feels deep within her core that she and they would forever remain strangers~~... 

Hello, stranger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.’ - J.M. Barrie (Peter Pan)
> 
> Also, someone messaged me on tumblr to tell me that Irina isn't 6'5" so: (5'11" natural height + 6" heels = 6'5")


	10. No Need to Pry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Coming Out || Bisexuality || References to Emotional Infidelity

Beautiful – his crooked posture, hair tousled in an attempt to make the mess look intentional, dark circles surrounding his darker than usual orbs. Breakfast? No, that would have to wait, he thinks to himself as he watches the other man stumble up the drive, absently throwing his hand up to greet him. No words, he couldn’t find them even if they were needed, so he just steps aside to allow the other man to easily make his way into the house, inhaling the deep scent of vanilla and lavender as the Argentinian edges his way past him. Beautiful – the soft, lopsided smile the other man gives him, the way the other man’s shoulders seem to relax as soon as he is within the house.

Neymar closes the door and watches as Lionel immediately makes his way into the living room, smiling as he sees the other forward simply collapse onto the plush of his sofa cushions, blabbering. He's saying something about ‘women choosing the worst times for intimacy’, something else he doesn't quite catch. He chuckles gently and softly reminds the other man that he doesn’t have much experience with long-term relationships and doesn’t know much about the needs of women – neglecting to inform the other that the two are in no way connected. He takes a detour on his way to join the Argentinian in the living room, strolling into his kitchen to grab a couple of bottles of water off of the countertop, and hands one of the bottles to Leo just before he plops down on the cushion beside the other man, rethinking his choice of seating as he realises that they are both sitting on the love seat. “I’m assuming you had a rough night,” the young Brasilian observes as he hears Leo yawn and sees him rub tiredly at his face; he is sitting close enough to easily make out the bags under the older man’s eyes and he can see the pressured redness in the whites of the eyes of the other as he finds them. He knows that Lionel’s tiredness probably has something to do with his extended stay in the Spanish capital but he knows better than to directly inquire of such a thing. “Jesus, you’re making me feel tired,” he yawns in response to Leo’s yawn, smiling as he hears Leo's chuckle resound from beside him.

“You can say that,” Leo finally answers in response to Neymar’s original observation, smiling ever so slightly as he thinks back to the night before. Forget the deflected goal and the typical finish, forget the condemning voices within his mind and then forget the curious stares of his teammates as he told his teammates that he’d venture back to Barcelona on his own – it was the feeling of strong muscles and soft flesh rubbing against the surface of his skin, it was the feeling of their sweat entwining as their moans escaped into the air, it was the sheer intensity, the focus in the eyes of the other as he finished him off… “It was definitely an exhausting one,” he concludes as he briefly finds the hazel eyes of the winger before he decides to take in his current environment. He smiles as he finds the walls of the other man flooded with pictures of blonde hair and bright, white smiles – David with Neymar, David with Pele, David with a football, David, David, David – knowing all too well that his walls will soon look like these one day, Thiago’s dark hair in the place of David’s blonde. “How’s your son?” Leo asks as he finds a few more photos and tries to figure out what is happening in them from where he is sitting – he swears that one has a clown in it but knows that the painted figure could have easily been a relative of the Brasilian.

The number eleven smiles at the mentioning of his son and informs Leo that he is with Carolina’s parents for a week. “They said that they didn’t get to see him enough but,” he sighs as he turns and finds Leo distantly studying his walls, “it’s not my fault he doesn’t care for them and that they don’t take more of an initiative to see him.” He shakes his head as he thinks of Carolina and her parents and then he shakes his head at himself. “You don’t choose your family though,” he snickers out as he catches a quick smile forming on Lionel's face but silences himself as soon as he sees the features of the other man drop, that smile having been quickly replaced with a frown. "Are you okay?"

There had been so many pictures hanging on the wall – so much green and yellow from the pictures of David with the Brasilian National Team, so much blue and deep red from the pictures of David with the Barcelona squad, so much black and white from the many pictures of David with the Santos squad – that he hadn’t even noticed the little jersey at the center, a jersey way too small to still be worn by the little blonde, the focal point of the ‘Wall of David’ as Leo’s mind has branded it. It bore the yellow of the Brasilian National team, the green trim and green numbering, the number ten – ((that damned number ten)) – and only the word ‘Papi’ inscribed above it. No ‘David’ inscribed anywhere to tie the little boy to the number on the jersey, no ‘David’ to bind the little boy to the colors of the jersey - no expectations. The voices: ((Can't say I'm surprised. You’re even failing as a parent; a twenty-two year old is doing a better job than you are for fucks sake. You are just as unfit to be a parent as you are to take to the pitch for Barcelona))… No. No he isn’t unfit. He had burned the jerseys, had burned all of the little Thiago ten’s and had burned all of Thiago on a canvas of blue and red, blue and white… He can feel Neymar’s eyes on him and he searches for an escape from the scrutiny he feels as he falls within the gaze of the other man, the scrutiny within. “I, uh, I'm fine. I mean, are you okay? I mean, how, uh, how’s your ankle?” He asks suddenly as he pulls his eyes from the jersey and refocuses on the wiry man, running his hand through his hair as he tries to remember what it is that Neymar had injured the night before. “Was it a simple roll or…?” He trails as he watches the face of the other man fall and wonders what the doctors must have told him. “Did you sprain it?” He asks as he winces at the word ‘sprain’. Such a vile word but it's a better word than fracture, than tear.

The Brasilian nods and crosses his legs, throwing his right ankle on his left thigh, speaking as he gently rubs his thumb over the sore area beneath his ankle. “I tore my peroneal tendon," he breathes out as he feels a slight pain starting to rise at the contact, "and the club doctors are saying that I’m probably going to have to miss the next game, and the next one, all the way until the game against Manchester City but I may miss that one, too,” he sighs out as he watches Lionel kick off his own shoes to make himself comfortable. “I have to go in for a scan tomorrow. More thorough testing but, I swear, it’s like you come back and I go off. It’s just not meant to be,” he laughs out as he sees the Argentinian turning his own body in towards him. ((It's like we're not meant to be)). 

He feels his breath catch a little as he takes in the sight of a suddenly relaxed Leo: his right foot tucked underneath him, chin resting on his left knee cap, a soft smile playing on his lips – he’s only ever seen Leo hyper-focused on something or disturbed, as disturbed is the only word that comes to mind when he thinks of Leo on the night of the gala, never relaxed. It was beautiful – he was beautiful, is beautiful... His brows furrow together as he notices the sudden movement of the older man but he doesn't respond quick enough to deter the other from what he is about to do and he soon finds himself crying out in pain as he feels a sudden exertion of pressure over his afflicted tendon. “Fuck, Leo! Why do you have to be such an asshole?” He asks partially out of temporary anger, partially out of play as the spurt of pain subsides. He can hear the other man chuckling and reaches over to pinch him in the side. “Just because you’re miserable it doesn’t give you a license to make everyone else miserable, you little prick!”

“Is it really so obvious?” The Argentinian blurts out without giving his words much of a thought. It just slips. His mind is too busy – reminding him of his failures as a parent, of his failures on the pitch – to turn over the words he’d say within this conversation so he finds himself bug eyed in the questioning stare of the younger man. “I mean, I could be doing better, that’s all.” He tries as he watches Neymar shake his head in disappointment, “I swear, that’s all it is.” Offense. “Neymar, what do I have to be miserable about?” Tilted head, raised eye brows. “Fine,” he concedes as he throws his head back in exasperation, “seeing as you know so much,” he sighs out, challenging the younger man, “you tell me what you think is making me so miserable.”

“It’s Cristiano, isn’t it?” Neymar replies without giving the answer a second thought because he’s never be so sure of anything else in his life – except for his feelings for the man in front of him. How could it have not been Cristiano plaguing the mind of the other forward? How could it have been anything, anyone else? “You may have been drunk but…” a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts, he thinks to himself as he remembers every word Leo had said after the gala a couple of nights ago. He had been so concerned with becoming better, so concerned with improving every aspect of his game, so concerned about why he had chosen Cristiano as a role model... "I know it's him and I know..."

“That fucking bastard,” Leo breathes out heatedly before the other man can finish what he is saying. It isn’t that he is ashamed: not of his sexuality, not of his relationship with Cristiano – though he knows that he should have been, betraying Antonella is just… He is just disappointed. Disappointed that he had told Xavi something in confidence and that the other has seemingly told Neymar of all people. Disappointed because he had actually expected for someone – his captain, god forbid – to treat something he had shared with him with an ounce of discretion. Before he can say anymore on the matter though, he feels his phone buzz to life from within his pocket and groans as he pulls the flashing thing out. Now this, he thinks anxiously as he glances down at the flashing name, a name he has stored in his phone simply so he can shit talk the man further after one of their encounters on the pitch, this he has expected. Xavi isn’t the type to simply take what someone says as truth, he is the type to check his sources. Leo bites his lip and wideneds his eyes in Neymar’s direction, figuring the Brasilian already knows so 'what the hell', and answers his phone on speaker. “Hey, Sergio. I figured Iker would call but…” 

* * *

It wasn't that she was angry - no, that would have been implicative of her having enough rationality to name her emotions - but she was somewhere in the area, perhaps a bit beyond anger. She wouldn't cry - no, that would imply that she was willing to show this man how she was feeling, willing to show him just how vulnerable he had just made her, willing to show him just how much he had made her hurt - but that didn't mean that the tears weren't there, that the hurt wasn't there. She wouldn't speak - no, that would surely send the wrong message: that she was willing to talk about this, willing to work through this, willing to listen - but that didn't mean that she didn't have anything to say... She would get dressed though; she would climb down from on top of this man, this boy that she had just given herself to and she would put on her skinny jeans - the ones that seemed to have been designed just for her curves, her heels - the red six inch ones that made her ass look divine, and that crop top she just had to have the week before while ignoring the apology she could hear him muttering from behind her. She knew she'd be walking away, regardless of whatever excuse Cristiano was trying to feed her, but she knew she wanted to look good while doing it so she took her time in doing it. No one, no man was going to reduce her to blotchy skin and red eyes - made red by the strain as she held back those tears - so she would reapply her makeup in silence: blacken the lines beneath her eyes, dabble a soft pink over her cheek bones, paint her lips a devil's red just before smacking her lips together before her own reflection. 

The clicking of her heels against his tile was louder than the explanation she was refusing hear, louder than the excuses but her resolve, her resolve was cracking and nearly shattered as she heard the front door opening. A sudden sharp turn into the kitchen and she could hear the pitter-patter of Junior's feet running towards Cristiano's room and she could hear the Portuguese man pulling on his jeans just as the boy rounded the corner into the room, disappearing from her view. She knew she was leaving but she knew that she wouldn't leave without exchanging a 'goodbye' with at least one of the boys of the house.

Dolores had followed the little boy in, was mumbling out something about the teacher thinking that Cristiano was within hearing range, and was getting ready to leave when she caught sight of Irina in the kitchen. She looked as gorgeous as she usually did - perhaps more so than usual, even - but she sensed something about her that she had never before. Something about her posture. Something about the look in her eyes. She wanted to ask but she was never one to pry unless she was speaking to her son. She didn't need to. 

"Irina!" The tear filled eyes of the little boy were in front of the Russian model, looking up at her. "Why won't you be my mommy?" She bent down and pulled the head of curls to her chest, squeezed him for what she knew would be the last time and allowed her first and only tear to fall. "Daddy says you don't love each other but it's... it's not fair because I love you, Irina." She nodded her head as she held the little boy, pulled back and softly smiled into those glassy eyes of chocolate. "I want a mommy. I told... I told... why can't you, why can't you be my mommy?"

"I think that's the one thing that your daddy will never be able to give you." The feeling of soft curls beneath her fingertips, a parting glance at the man still trying to apologize, a soft smile in the direction of the mother who hadn't raised him properly, who hadn't taught him how to properly respect a woman...

...and she was gone. 

* * *

(“How long, fucklet?”) Neymar isn’t confused; no, he finds that he's able to put everything together within the first thirty seconds of Leo’s exchange with Sergio: Cristiano, fucking, Zurich, last night, Madrid… He is definitely shocked, he's gobsmacked, bewildered, stunned but he's certainly not confused. He listens, eyes wide as Leo stutters out that Zurich had been the first time and, eyes wide, he attempts to wrap his head around all of it: Cristiano, fucking, Zurich, last night, Madrid… (“Who the hell do you think you are?”) Neymar stops, he thinks about the question long and hard, as if he is the one being asked it within the moment. Cristiano, fucking, Zurich, last night, Madrid… Leo? No. Lionel won’t… He listens as he hears Leo tell the Sevillan man that he doesn’t know how ‘they’ had happened the first time that ‘they’ had happened… that it had just happened? Leo, Cristiano, fucking, Zurich, last night, Madrid? No. That simply isn’t like Leo. It just isn't so he isn't going to accept it as something has done. Nope. (“Listen, you little gnome-fuck…”) The voice is dwelling in anger, Sergio is in his seemingly usual state of angry but Neymar doesn’t know why. ((Calm down)), it isn’t true, any of the things Leo is currently implicating. They simply can’t be true. Leo, Cristiano, fucking, Zurich, last night, Madrid…? No. None of it is true. Leo's just, he's just fucking around. He just, he has a dry sense of humor is all. Yeah. Dry humor. (“Why the fuck were you at his house last night? Answer me, just... Fabio saw you leaving, you fucking cock sucker! What did you do?”)

“What the fuck is your problem, Sergio?” Leo finally shouts into the speaker, finally concedes to that slow boiling anger as Sergio becomes his too much. “My life isn't your concern, my choices aren't your concern. Keep your homophobic inquiries to yourself and keep your calls local. Who Cristiano chooses to sleep with, who I choose to sleep with, it isn't any of your concern.” Sergio has always managed to piss him off on the pitch but this is the first time he has ever had to deal with his hot-headedness off of it and, quite frankly, he is one thousand percent tired of his shit. He's bitten his tongue, has held himself back long enough; (the fact that the larger man, the horrifyingly passionate man is coming to him via a phone conversation helps give rise to his courage, he admits. He isn't cowardly or anything, he's just not stupid enough to try to take Sergio head on anywhere off of a pitch with a ref itching to pull out a red card because... Sergio). Dealing with Sergio Ramos twice a year is already enough to make him consider switching leagues on its own, anything more than that is excessive, a slow suicide, and simply requires more than he has to give. “You’re not in control of him and you're not in control of me, verga!”

Neymar watches with round eyes but an otherwise blank expression as the other man taps on the end call icon and releases an audible exhale. “Tell me you aren’t actually fucking Cristiano Ronaldo, Leo?” He whispers out as he feels a tightening sensation in his chest; the plausible infidelity of the other man aside, he knows that he can’t, couldn't possibly compete with someone like Cristiano for Leo’s affections, knows he pales in comparison to the Portuguese Ken doll. “Just,” he mumbles out as he searches for the eyes of the other man, “tell me you guys didn’t…”

“I thought you knew?” Leo blurts out as he finds a look of shock encompasing the Brasilian’s features: eyes wide and eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly, mouth ajar. “I thought Xavi had told you? I mean, you knew that Cristiano was what was making me miserable earlier and I…”

“No.” Neymar quickly interrupts the Argentinian with a shake of his head, rubbing his chin as he redirects his wide-eyed gaze at the coffee table in front of them. ((Xavi knows about this shit?)) “I was talking about the party after the gala. I was talking about all of the mumble jumble bullshit you were saying about improving your game, becoming a complete player like Cristiano and I, I…" he trails as he feels the emotions - jealousy and all that it entails: a drop of rage with traces of bitterness, a dash of salt with a measured ounce of disgust, a teaspoon of insecurity that's made to two for taste - rising from within himself. "That Shakespeare shit and I, I’m not feeling too well. I think, I think I’m going to go to bed. I just, I’m sorry about breakfast and for disturbing your morning, Leo. I just…” He stops as he feels a gentle hand fall to his knee and he glances over to find the soft eyes of the number ten searching for his own. “I promise it’s not… It’s probably not what you think it is. I just…” He trails as he sees Leo pull his bottom lip in between his teeth and gulps as he wonders how it will feel pressing against his, wonders how he would taste. ((Cristiano knows)). "It's just that I..." He thinks he hears the other man ask him ‘what is it then’ but, then again, he can’t be sure so he finds himself leaning in a little closer to… ((Cristiano knows)). They feel like silk, softer than he had ever dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irina's "cut scene" was intentionally left in the original past, third person omniscent.


	11. Like Razors. Like Knives.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She deserves earthquakes and perfect storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Coming Out || Homphobia || Homophobic Language || Homophobic Slurs

The world doesn’t suddenly start to spin wildly out of control. Everything around him doesn’t start to blur and the hands on the clock seem to neither accelerate nor slow down; they simply tick off each passing second, tick off each moment he goes without feeling for her the things he knows that she deserves to have felt for her. The world, his world, doesn't seemingly fall to shambles as the clacking sounds of her heels grow distant and faint, everything around him, within him, seems to stay intact as the sounds of his front door opening, closing reaches him. A few more tick off the old clock and still he remains as whole as he was when he had entered his home that afternoon, still the earth and everything around it carries on. He doesn't feel a shift in the balance of the universe - the world neither seems to be more grim nor do the colours within it appear to be more vivid, the world neither seems colder nor does it seem warmer as he hears the sounds of her leaving his life forever. No. The birds are still chirping merrily just outside, the fluttering of their wings carrying them from tree to tree can still be heard, and the splashes of them playing in the bird bath still echo off of the walls of his courtyard. The rays of the sun are still stretching out and touching the earth, still trying to sneak into his home by way of the cracks beneath his drawn curtains. No sudden storms seem to be looming on the horizon, no storms threaten to overtake him without warning, and no songs of sorrow seem to be resonating around him, within him. No strings of violins nor of cellos are being plucked in some form of 'woe is me', melancholic melody. No, there is none of that. Everything was just… normal, unchanged, seemingly untouched. As he stands there, willing himself to feel anything - regret, pain, empathy for the woman - yet feeling nothing, he finds himself slightly disappointed by the lack of cataclysmic events... It isn't right. It isn't just. She deserves earthquakes and perfect storms.

...and then he blinks. Finds the curious eyes of his mother searching for his own, drags his gaze further down to discover the disappointed eyes of his son, and suddenly, suddenly he remembers that leaking eyes and broken, porcelain hearts of a child aren't their kind of normal. His “okay with this” is not necessarily their “okay with this”, regardless of how much he wants them to be okay with this. That his unspoken “I understand” is not their “I understand this”, regardless of how much he wants them to understand (at least, as much as they could without him having to give them the means to do so fully). There it is, the disaster left in his wake, a storm for Irina that is more than he can bare. 

He stares into the glassy eyes of the boy, tries to find that spark of unadulterated joy that he knows is locked somewhere behind all of the salty water on the front, but soon finds a head of curls consuming his vision in their place. “Junior,” Cristiano starts as he stoops down in an attempt to hold his son's gaze once again, “I can…” He sighs, defeated as he watches his little boy put more distance between himself and that little head of curls, and coveres his face with his hand as he sees his little boy attach himself to his grandmother’s leg. He wants nothing more than to hold him, to look into those chocolate eyes and let their holder know that this isn't happening as some demented form of punishment but... He draws in a large breath of air and tries again. “Look, I know you loved spending time with Iri but…”

“I hate you! You ruin everything! All I wanted...” The little boy yells, snot covered lips quivering as the words escape from within the little tear in his soul and fills the spaces in front of him. “I was this close,” the little boy screams as he held up one of his hands, forming a measurement close to an inch between his pointer and his thumb, “this close to having one but you ruined it! You always ruin it.” He storms out of the kitchen area and runs past his father to the area of the house he calls his own, slamming his bedroom door in the process.

Cristiano sees a few of his picture frames and the pieces of art adorning the wall rattle as the sound of yet another slamming door reaches his ears, sees a few of them slip and hears them collide with the floor, but none of it, none of the sounds and none of the antics of his three year old phase him in that moment. It's those three words that leave him in a paralytic state, those three words that leave him speechless, motionless, and unable to process anything else. Those three words that keep reverberating within his mind, those three words that dance on replay and echo like a broken record on his every thought. ((I hate you. I hate you. I hate you)). He had heard the reason behind them, he even understands the reason they have been said – he knows that children don’t understand the power and passion implicated behind words such as ‘love’ and ‘hate’ and he knows, he knows that children can only express themselves in extremes – but that doesn’t mean that those words hurt him any less. ((I hate you. I hate you)). Like razors, like knives they carved themselves into him. Like razors, like knives they threatened to leave a scar in their wake. Like razors. Like knives.

He can hear his mother clearing her throat and presumes that he will look up to find her opening her mouth to speak – to reprimand him or his son (through him), who knows – but he wouldn't give her the chance as he shakes his head dismissively in her direction. “Don’t. You, you don’t speak,” Cristiano says with a sense of finality, not bothering to look in her direction to see how she is taking his ‘request’ as he rises back to his full height and drifts into his living room. Collapsing to the couch as if the weight of the world is upon him (prove that it isn't), he covers his mouth with his hand and sighs into it, holding up the other as if he doesn’t know what to do with it before he rests both of his elbows on his knees and entwines his fingers with one another. “I’m tired,” he confesses as he gently closes his eyes and attempts to silence those three words. ((I hate you. I hate you. I hate you)). “I am so fucking tired, Momma, and I can’t keep…”

“Cristiano…” Delores starts as she makes her way towards the living room, stopping to straighten a few random things around the house on her way to join her youngest son. She picks up a few of the fallen frames from the floor of the dining area with a tsking sound, frowning slightly as she finds a few of them to have cracks in the glass, and straightens a few of the ones that still cling to their nails, smiling as she finds a photo that had been taken from back in a time when her family had been complete. After a few moments, she makes her way to her son but stops and stands in the entry way of the room, watching her son unfurl before her only to watch him recollect himself a few moments later. Again and again, a vicious cycle of unraveling and recollecting, unraveling and recollecting unfolds before her eyes. After a few maternally painful moments of watching her son come undone, she takes a seat on the couch adjacent of her son and tries to pull him out of his unraveling and recollection and into her arms, attempts to further engage him in the conversation he has started. “Cristiano, you can’t…”

“No,” Cristiano breathes out heavily as he feels an anger, a quiet anger unlike any he has ever felt before, beginning to rise from within himself. “No. No! You don’t get to tell me what I can and cannot do right now, Momma. You can't... I can't... I’m so, I’m so fucking tired of it.” He can feel his muscles starting to tremor, shake as he starts breaking from the gravity of the events of that day, of the night before. It's all too much, all too sudden, all too soon and he knows all too well that this – his son, Sergio, Leo, Irina, his mother – can easily push him… ((No. Not him. Never him. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you)). “I am just so fucking tired of people telling me what I can and cannot eat, what I can and cannot do, who I can and cannot associate with, who I can and cannot love. I just…” Cristiano spares a glance in his mother's direction and catches her opening her mouth as if to speak (she can't help it) and he dismisses her, once again, with a wave of the hand and a shake of the head. “How I can and cannot act, what I can and cannot tolerate from my own child. Don’t,” he warns as he points a finger towards his mother. “Just stop.” (She can't help it).

Delores takes a few deep breaths and shakes her head in defeat as she finds her youngest son’s eyes. She knows all too well how hot-tempered he is, knows all too well that he has to put up with a great deal of pressure on a daily basis but she, better than anyone, knows that all of that pressure has left fractures in her son’s walls. She simply wants to spread the spackle but she knows, better than anyone, that he's too stubborn to ever let her. Their conversation has been one-sided thus far but she is simply happy that his thoughts aren't being trapped within the confines of his head, that they weren't being allowed to fester and spread like the virus all thoughts could be to parts of him that could easily demand for him to take some sort of action on them. Cris, Cris loves his walls; she knows that better than anyone so it's nice that he's lowering the bridge for once. “Am I at least allowed to ask what happened around here or…?” She is cautious with her question but Cristiano has fallen silent, has buried his face behind his hands again. All she knows is to pull and pull and pull, but whether she is pulling too hard or not hard enough is never a consistent thing with her youngest. She pulls harder. (She can't help it).

“Are you serious? Isn’t it obvious what happened?” Cristiano scoffs out, slightly dumbfounded at his mother's line of questioning. ((I hate you. I hate you. I hate you)). She has seen Irina leave, has heard the parting words that the Russian had left for Junior, yet still she asks. “We broke up. We’re done. Over. Finished. Fin.” He makes a –poofing – motion with his hands just before he covers his face with them again, fingers rubbing anxiously at his brows and eyelids as he drags them from his jawline to his hairline and back again. He suddenly feels overwhelmed by the realness of the words. ((I hate you. I hate you. I hate you)).

“I was just making sure, dear. You know that I’m never one to assume these things given the way,” she waves a free hand in the space between herself and her son, “you are." She glances around the house and frowns at how dark it all seems but she does nothing to fix it; Cristiano hates it when she adjusts or touches too many things of his and she doesn't want to irritate him further, not with him in this state of mind. "I may not be the smartest nor the most observant person in the world, child, but that is no reason to disrespect me in this way. I did not raise you to treat me in this way, Cristiano. You're lucky I don't string you up by your ears.”

“If you’re taking all the credit for the man I am today, Momma,” Cristiano laughs out incredulously, his mind still painfully focused on those three words, “you messed up more than anyone could ever admit to in one lifetime.” He stares at the wall behind her for a few moments, enjoying the few seconds of silence that form between them, but eventually feels the weight of his words forming a regret. After a few ticks of the clock sound ((I hate you. I hate you. I hate you)), he continues. “It’s not you, though. It’s not, it’s not your fault that I’m, that I’m…” the words that he's looking for wouldn’t come out but he pushes out others in their place, “that my moral compass points south when it should point north, you know?” He hears his mother sigh and sees her rise from the couch beside him, feels the weight of her sinking into the cushion just beside him and soon feels her hand against his cheek. He can hear her whispering something ((you cheated again, didn't you?)) but his mind doesn't linger on her words for long. “I messed up. I, uh, I didn’t… I didn’t tell him that I was meeting up with Leo last night and now he… I just can’t believe I was so fucking stupid to not think to tell him, you know? He was already concerned as it was and I, I just should have done better.”

Delores draws her eyebrows together as she tries to figure out who ‘he’ is and who ‘Leo’ is and why ‘he’ should have been informed of ‘Leo’ coming to her son’s house. The details aren't of the utmost importance to her though, her son is distraught because of these people so she does what mother's do. She tries to fix it, needs to fix it, to make her son smile again. So she pushes. (She can't help it). “Does, does he not get along with Leo? This friend of yours?” She asks as she soothingly runs her fingers through her son’s hair, pulling him into her chest as she voices her questions. “I’m sure this friend of yours would understand if you just…”

“No. He's, he's not my friend, Momma,” Cristiano sighs out as he nuzzles his face into the crook of his mother’s neck. He bites the inside of his cheek and chokes back the tears, counts to three, dares himself, and closes his eyes as tightly as he can... ((I hate you. I hate you. I hate me)). “He's not my friend, he's, uh... He's, he’s my boyfriend." He can feel a brand new wave of tears forming, can feel the knot in his throat forming as his memory kicks him right in the heart. "...or at least he was.” He feels his mother pulling away from him instantly, feels her warmth leaving him and feels her tugging at the roots of his hair to turn his face onto hers. He wants to close his eyes again, wants to regress back into that old childhood ideology of 'if I can't see you, you can't see me / if you can't see me, you can't hurt me' but he can't... Instead, he swallows his wants, finds his mother's face, and instantly swallows his highest hopes.

“What do you mean? He’s… He can’t… Boyfriend? No, Cristiano. No, no, no. This, this is not right, Cristiano!” Delores shakes her head as rapidly as she can, silently hoping that the motion will force the words out of her head in her desperate attempt to unhear the heard. This is not happening to her, cannot be happening to her. Not to her family, not her son. No son of hers will be, can be a fa-fa-fa... No. She will die before any son of hers is caught engaging in some sort of sick sodomic ritual. The members of the church will surely… Oh heavens! The church! “No! I simply will not allow it! No son of mine will burn in hell! You are not one those, Cristiano! You are not some, some, some faggot! I know you and you know that this... No, you are wrong! You’re just, you're just saying this for attention, yes, but I will have none of it! It’s against the church, it’s not…” She pushes and she pulls. (She can't help it).

“…and what of abortion?” Cristiano spits out instinctively as he pushes himself off of his mother, heart pounding and mind, thoughts spiraling in every direction. ((I hate you. I hate me. I hate you. I hate me. I hate you)). “What are the church's thoughts on that, huh? You drank and drank and drank, all but prayed for a miscarriage and yet you have the nerve to tell me that I live in sin, will burn in the name of sin? Oh yeah, that’s right. Religion is only relevant when it favors you, isn't it, mom?” He feels liquid somewhere on his face, whether it is of sweat forming on his brow or whether it is leaking from his eyes didn’t matter, but it is there – feeling in liquid form and he wants it gone. He wants her gone, she who proves to be nothing more than another crumbling pillar in his life. “You know what,” he sighs out in self defeat after a few moments as he uses his sleeve to wipe that salty liquid off of his face, “I quit. I don’t want you to pretend to be understanding. I don’t want you to pretend to be accepting. I don’t want you to pretend anymore. This, you... Perfect. Honest. What I want, what I need right now though...? I need for you to leave. Now. Just... I cannot deal with this, with you being like this right now. I need to check on my son. You can see yourself out.” He wants to throw something on the couch and leave the room in a storm, do something physical to make a statement to her, but his hands are empty and he is far too exhausted to exert himself in a forceful manner.

He takes a few moments to compose himself and he refuses to open the door to his son's room until he hears the sounds of the front door opening, closing. As he pushes open the sliver of wood that separates his son’s bedroom from the hall, he lets a small smile take hold of his features, feels a peace overcome him for the first time since the night before. He leans against the frame of the door and transfixes his gaze on the only piece of his son visible from beneath the mountain of stuffed animals, that small patch of curls attached to what seems to be a sniveling, sleeping little boy. He has a rule about going to sleep angry – with Junior, with Sergio, even Irina – but he is too exhausted, too drained to wake the boy, is unsure if he is capable of properly explaining to Junior what is going on and if, with Sergio breaking up with him, if it is even worth it. After a few moments pass, Cristiano goes inside of the room and carefully extracts the little boy from the pile of stuffed frogs and bears and gently places him beneath the covers of the little bed as he releases a soft sigh. ((I hate you. I hate you)). ((It doesn't change that...)) “I love you.”

Little eyelids briefly flutter open as a shy, apologetic smile ghosts over the little face. A whisper, a lazy "I love you, too, Daddy," just before the little eyelids close again and the room falls silent to all but the gentle sound of snoring.


	12. ((Nothing)). Something. Everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Emotional Infidelity || Bisexuality and Homoromanticism

He feels as if he is sinking, drowning in the something, the nothing, and the everything that is the feel of Leo’s lips. He's completely surrounded and he surrenders. His senses quickly become overwhelmed by the softness, his mind and thoughts consumed by the warmth, until every piece of who he is slowly washes away. He is someone though he is a senseless no one under the feel of Leo within this moment. He dies only to be reborn into this feeling. 

It's such a simple little thing to lose oneself to – a feeling, a mediocre little nothing to anyone else – and yet he is being pulled down by this petty little nothing as his hands stretch above his head, as a white flag waves gently in the winds of change. He is defeat by something unseen, asphyxia seems to welcome him as the petty little nothing holds him below, as it suspends his being in the middle of somewhere, anywhere, and yet he finds that he's nowhere at all ...and yet, as he falls further and further within the abyss, all he can possibly think of doing falls somewhere in line with sinking further and further down, down, down into the touches of the Argentinian, further and further down, down, down into the euphoric haze. Resurfacing, oxygen, clarity… No, he wants none this. He wants the splotches and the blotches, he wants everything around him blurring to little more than splatters of color, to fuzzy little lines, lines that look like they must have been defined lines that confined at some point. He falls further as thoughts of definition flee him; yes, this petty little nothing affects him in such a way that he's sure that nothing else can ever, will ever hold "true" definition again. No, not even this simple, little nothing as its nothingness is everything to him, everything and yet...

Chaos ensues within the realms of his mind as he feels no response, no tongue anxiously searching for the taste of him, no lips brushing against his own in a need to know the feel of his flesh. ((Cristiano knows)). A spark, a memory of things once said blooms fire somewhere within his watery surrender, brings him to a boil. ((Cristiano knows)) and the heat of the water around him seems to intensify all too quickly, the air pockets start to rapidly drift and float to the surface of this. Over and over again he feels himself rolling around in the bubbles ((Cristiano knows)), bubbles threatening to burst, threatening to drag him back to the surface. ((Cristiano knows)), so he pushes himself further down into the feel of those lips, tries to escape the surface, tries to escape the world outside of this feeling because this feeling, this feeling is his world now... but the heat only seeming to increase the further he falls into the essence, the being of this man. The temperature rises and rises as he falls and falls until… Until he brushes the bottom, falls too far in only to find himself burning against a bottom, finds himself in a place he had thought that he’d never reach. He burns. ((Cristiano knows. Cristiano knows. Cristiano knows)). 

...and it's only then that he realises that his curiosity has gotten the better of him, only then that he realises that he has come too close and only then that he realises that he has only played himself. As a mere moth to the flame ((Cristiano knows)), he draws closer and closer, throws himself deeper and deeper into the petty little nothing, only to find himself burning, turning to ash as his watery surrender evaporates to nothing, nothing, nothing. Too close is as dangerous as too far, he realises.

“What the fuck, Ney?” Leo chokes out as he shoves the younger man from off of him, wipes his lips against the back of his hand as he's trying to solve the enigma that is sitting before him. He isn't angry but he's, he's something. He had been rendered motionless by the sudden yet soft collision of lips and he had still been trying to figure out the meaning behind the action when he had felt Neymar’s tongue slipping inside of his mouth. It had startled him, to say the least, and he doesn't think... No, he doesn't understand the why of this. “What the hell are you…?”

The rest of Leo’s words trickle and fall against deaf ears as Neymar shakes his head and attempts to make sense of his own thoughts, his own self as it all rushes back through him, as he feels the air and the touches of light again. He surfaces yet still he burns, still he turns to ash in the relentless heat of Leo’s inquisitive gaze and the knowledge that Cristiano knows what this man tastes like, feels like from the inside while he, he is confined to being held at a distance... ((Swallow. Digest. Regurgitate. Swallow. Digest. Regurgitate)). 

“It just doesn’t make sense.” Neymar whispers to himself but he can see Leo quirk his head in his peripheral, can see the Argentinian leaning in to better make out his words. “None of this is logical. Why would he... ? Why would you…?” He shakes his head dismissively as he thinks of Leo and Cris, of Cris and Leo. ((No)), he doesn't want to do that anymore. He shoves his hands through his hair, knits the brows arching above his eyes to form a look of disbelief to reflect his feelings of it. “You guys aren’t even friends, Leo. You guys don’t even…” He can hear Leo interrupting him, sighs as the other accuses him of playing into the media’s bullshit but he waves him off with another shake of the head. He only plays into his own bullshit. ((Cristiano knows)). The burn scourges his cheeks, makes its way into his eyes from deep within his core. ((Cristiano knows)). “You’ll never mean as much to him as you mean to me, Leo.”

The Argentinian pulls himself back for a moment, furrows his own brow in thought as the words find him. He doesn't agree. He simply shakes his head to show his disagreement, decides on some words as he overlooks the confession, misses the confession. “What would you know about what goes on between Cris and myself?” He hears Neymar scoff as he shortens the name of the Madrid talisman but he chooses to blatantly disregard the interruption as he feels a bubble of anger rising from the slow boil within himself, as it threatens to burst should it find light. “You will never understand what goes on between the two of us. Never. No one ever will understand it because no one else knows what it’s like to be us… No one. Especially not some kid from Brasil who had his future handed to him on a silver plate.” He shakes his head for the thousandth time and runs a frustrated hand through his hair, still trying to figure out what it is that is happening. “Look, I..." (((Fuck me)) but not really). "I didn't mean that, Neymar. At least, I didn't mean for it to come across in that manner but... Where the, where the hell is this coming from, Ney? Huh?”

“You honestly don’t know, Leo? Are you, are you serious right now? This, what I have for you, this is real and not some… I get it. You’re drawn to Cristiano because you’re so much alike but maybe, maybe you guys are too much alike. Have you ever considered that?” Neymar scoffs as the questions spill from over his lips, dance in the spaces between their bodies, and he chooses to find his feet, winces as he realises that he's put too much pressure on his bad ankle but he's going to play it off. He knows that Leo is right, that he is attempting to speak on a matter that he knows nothing of (he doesn't want Leo to be right about anything this time though) but that's, that's part of what kills him. He doesn't know why Cristiano is taking a sudden interest in Leo or why Cristiano is returning an interest in Leo; it seems rather odd after five years of being within the same league, a bit out of the blue, suspicious. It just seems... off and yes, yes he knows that his thoughts may very well be rooted in his biased envy towards Cristiano but nothing about the 'relationship' between Cris and Leo feels right, feels natural. “Maybe you’re just being too hasty and not thinking things through. It’s okay to feel desperate sometimes, Leo, but when you act on it… I just think you’re going to get hurt when all of this is said and done. Besides, your place is here, with us,” ((with me)), “and lately, lately your mind’s been somewhere else, with someone else and I…”

“This isn’t about you, Neymar,” Leo sighs in disbelief from where he still sits on the sofa. “This, this is about me not about what you can or cannot wrap your mind around.” His mind flies back to their flight from earlier in the week and his senses become overwhelmed with Xavi’s incessant badgering once again. ((This isn’t you, Leo. This isn’t you, Leo. This isn’t you, Leo)). “No, Ney. This… This is me and Cristiano…? He’s a part of me now and you’re going to have to accept that sooner or later.”

-

Sergio throws his phone into his passenger seat and simply stares at the steering wheel of his car for a moment, trying to think of what it is that he's supposed to make of this oh-so fucked up situation. He has tried telling himself that it isn’t his problem to dwell over anymore, that Cristiano is no longer a concern of his but no… No, that is just a lie he has to keep telling himself in order to keep himself sane but, as the lies are failing to serve their respective purposes, he no longer feels the need to lie to himself, no longer sees the point in it. He thinks that there are already enough lies rattling within his mind and that he doesn’t need to add any of his own to the mess of them. It builds: the frustration, the pain of the betrayal, the anger. He senselessly beats the shit out of his steering wheel and rubs at his dry eyes, muttering soft curses as more than a few tears make their way out from within his inner self to stain the highs of his cheekbones. Like glass, he shatters and the record skips, sending him crashing, falling, shattering over and over again.

Time lingers in the salty water of his tears and the sounds of his sniffling for only a moment as he quickly decides that he needs to get inside soon or Pilar will grow restless or worse: concerned. He hates it when she worries about him, hates when she asks him where he is knowing that he could never give her truths, can't tell her that he has spent the evening with Cristiano while she sits at home with her legs plopped up and belly swollen, fingers twitching as she worries... hates when she would ask him if he is alright after one of his and Cristiano’s fights, knowing that he’ll have to feed her some bullshit excuse, some lie while feeling that she deserves better than a lie… hates when she would hold him close, wrap him in her arms and encourage him to ‘let it out’ because his ‘tears will poison him’ as salty water would boil forth from whatever wound has formed from his latest riff over whatever with Cristiano. He hates that he cares so much for her, she for him.

He slides his aviators over his eyes and pats his hands against his cheeks, pinching them ever so mildly to encourage blood flow and shoots himself a quick glance in the side view mirrors of his car. Passable. ((…that’s as good as it’s going to get)), he thinks briefly as he shoves his door open and finally sets foot in his driveway for the first time in the thirty minutes that he has been home. He doesn’t waste any time getting inside, thoughtlessly throwing his bag to the tiled floor of his foyer and stripping himself of his coat and scarf, slowing himself in his undress as he hears a strange bout of laughter resounding from within his living room. As he hangs his coat in the closet of the foyer, he leans back to look out into the driveway, a slight frown forming against his features as he finds it to be as he has expected, void and vacant of any strange cars. ((Must be the television)).

Sergio draws in a large breath of air, feels his abdomen - his lungs, his diaphragm - quivering in weakness as he does, and pointedly makes his way into the kitchen, doing everything within his power to avoid the living room for the time being, and pulls a bottle of water out of the fridge, sighing as the cool liquid makes its way down his throat and causes his stomach muscle to contract at the feel. He furrows his brow but continues to empty the bottle as he hears someone, Pilar – it has to be Pilar, excusing themselves to go to the restroom with a joke about bladder crushing babies. It isn’t long after that he hears heels clicking against the tile, feels another presence within the kitchen, hears someone clearing their throat from behind him.

“I would have never guessed that you were Cristiano’s… type.” She states rather simply, quietly as she makes herself comfortable behind the island’s bar, crossing her legs as she hooks one of her six inch red heels over the rung of the stool beneath her. She stares at the back of the other man’s head for a while, lightly scoffing as the Sevillan man before her seems to be refusing to turn to meet her gaze though there's nothing malicious in her way. She notes that the Spaniard is refusing to face her as if it would force him to acknowledge the reality of her presence, the reason for her presence, but she doesn’t care much for what he is or isn’t capable of doing within the moment… 

She is having a difficult time grasping her own reality and finds that her attempts of understanding it, with what limited things she knows about it, to be rather frustrating. His avoidance is a confirmation of her suspicions, his avoidance crushes her, but she'll never lay her emotions bare for the boy. “Don’t worry, Sergio,” she breathes out, the silky, Spanish name getting caught up in her Russian accent, “I’m not here with malicious intents. I promise you this. I would never do that to Pilar, not when she is in this, this…” she tries to find the word as she waves her hand over towards where Pilar had been sitting in the living room, sighing as she fails to find it any tongue outside of her native, “…состояние.” She shakes her head and feathers her hair with her fingers, blinks back her emotions as they attempt to materialize. ((Stupid, stupid girl)). Deep inhales, slow, exaggerated exhales. She sighs as she looks down at her nails, starts picking and scraping at the polish on them. “What have you and my…?” ((Nothing, nothing, nothing. He’s my nothing)). She can’t bring herself to refer to him as her ‘ex’, not just yet, not without knowing exactly what has transpired between Cristiano and Sergio ((like it matters? Stupid, stupid girl)). Not as her boyfriend because she knows that they are finished either way, have had their last curtain call, have drank their poison. The first affair had been forgivable, the constant whispers of others and now this… She is better than being subjected to these kinds of rumors and she knows that she is. Regardless, she isn’t ready to label it for what it is just yet ((stupid, stupid girl)), isn’t sure if there is even a point to labelling Cristiano as anything to her beyond this point but still... she wonders. ((Nothing, nothing, nothing)). “You and Cristiano? What happened?”

Sergio carefully places the water bottle onto the top of his counter, angles it to where he can pick at its label as he turns the question over within his mind. He isn’t sure of what Irina is talking about. Isn’t sure if she is asking about the events of the day or those prior to it? …both? “We loved. I lost." He doesn't care about what specifics she's referring to; he's tired of the lies. "Whatever was going on,” he whispers out, voice still raspy, words forced from all of the emotional torment he has subjected himself to that day, “…isn’t anymore.” He shakes his head in disbelief and wipes away at the tears that are slipping out from beneath the frames of his aviators. “You’re not the only one he fucked over.”

She's been calm since she's arrived, conceded to her suspicions, but she wants to throw something at him in the heat of her disbelief. She wants to knock some sense into him, take some form of corrective action towards him for assuming that information like this would make her feel better. She wants to throw something like a couple of words grouped together, words that would form a knife to slice his soul into a million and one pieces… A large intake of air and a thought of being above all of that. She's not here to fight, to start a war. She needs understand.

“I just don’t understand it,” the Russian sighs out as she examines her cuticles, lifting an eyebrow as she sees the Spaniard finally turn to face her in her peripheral. “You knew that he was cheating on me with you. You knew that the two of you were being disloyal and dishonest in whatever it is that the two of you have done and yet, here you are, shocked and sad that he was disloyal and dishonest with you…? I can't say that I feel sorry for you but,” she can’t suppress the mild amusement she has with the thought but she mentally scolds herself for it regardless. “That just makes you seem to be the foolish one. A hypocrite. And here I am pitying myself because I was completely blindsided but here you are, knowing exactly what the two of you do to the people you claim to love, shocked when it’s done to you." She shakes her head and raises her eyes beautifully, tilts her head just so and gives him the smile that all of the boys and girls swoon over her for. "Глупый, глупый мальчик.”

He tilts his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. ((Touché)). Sergio is opening his mouth to respond but he stops as he hears Pilar sighing in the hallway, mumbling something about how surprised she is that the baby hadn’t just fallen into the toilet. He and Irina exchange a knowing look before he turns back around to continue picking at the label of the bottle of water.

“Oh, you’re here,” Pilar sighs out, a smile flashing across her features as she approaches and kisses her boyfriend on the cheek. She frowns as she feels the moist, stick of them against her lips, pulls away curiously and tries to search for his eyes but only finds herself further confused as she realises that he is still wearing his aviators inside in a douchebag fashion. “Is everything alright?” She frowns as she sees his brows furrow, his head nodding “yes” carelessly, but she decides not to press the issue in the presence of their guest. “Uhm, I meant to call you before you reached the house but, uh, we’re out of tomatoes and I… Do you think you can pick some up for me, love?”

-

Cristiano groans as he hears the doorbell sounding from within the walls of his foyer and he forces his eyes open against the sunlight streaming into the room; he isn’t sure of how long he has been out for his siesta but his body still feels tired - whether he is physically exhausted or emotionally drained seems completely irrelevant within the moment. He smiles softly as he hears the gentle sounds of his son’s snoring and nuzzles his nose into the warmth of his son’s neck, leaving a small kiss over the boy’s pulse as he pulls away and throws his legs over the edge of the small bed.

He is still massaging the kinks of having slept in an undersized bed out of his neck and out of his thighs as he makes his way over to the front door and is still trying to wipe away the tiredness and exhaustion from his eyes as he opens the door. Baffled by the presence of the other man, he holds his hand up in front of his face and checks his breath against it, nose searching for the scent of intoxication. “S-Sergio?”

Sergio arches his eyebrow and tilts his head to the side as he hears the greeting, pushes himself past the winger not long after as he mindlessly runs his eyes over the picture frames and pieces of art hanging on the wall. He doesn't bother with a greeting as he carelessly throws his scarf and coat into the closet of Cristiano's foyer. “Did you know that Irina is over at my house?” It isn’t really a question as he doesn’t care much for the answer. “She’s over there talking to Pilar about God knows what right now.”

“Is that, is that the only reason why you’re here?” Cristiano whispers as he shakes his head, fighting a new surge of tears threatening to stain his cheeks for - what? - the third or fourth time within the same day. He is relieved to see Sergio, desperate to get him to understand what is happening as much as he can, regardless of how much of it he doesn’t understand… desperate to tell him about what has happened with Irina… desperate to tell him about what has happened with his mother… desperate for a shoulder to lean on, arms to fall into but he knows Sergio better than that, knows that he simply wouldn't sweep the morning's events beneath the rug so quickly for a reason so tame. “You’re worried she’s telling her about us or…?”

Sergio simply shakes his head and makes his way through the house, sighs as he opens the back doors and makes his way out into Cristiano’s garden. He pulls out the hem of his shirt and starts plucking and placing every plump tomato he sees into it, leaving the vines of the garden barren of everything except the little greens of the fruit. He makes his way back inside, closing the door with the heel of his shoe, and places the tomatoes into the sink basin for washing. “I’m not worried, I just…” he trails as he tries to figure out why he is even at Cristiano’s. ((It's a hell of a lot closer, quieter than the farmer's market)). Sure, it's a whopping three miles closer than the farmer's market. “How did she, how did she find out? I mean, is this your way of trying to prove something to me or…?”

“It was an accident,” Cristiano interjects as he makes his way into the kitchen and finds the Sevillan cleaning the dirt off of his garden tomatoes. He grabs a plastic bag out of one of his cabinets and starts placing the clean ones into it as he explains what had happened to his… Sergio. “She was here when I came home from training today and we… It was just sex, it wasn’t… I thought I had control but then I didn’t and I, I fucking shouted your name when I…” he feels frustrated as he attempts to explain what had happened between himself and Irina, frustrated because he wants to know what is happening between himself and the tomato thief more. “I don’t want to talk about her, Sergio. It’s over now and I… I just need you to know that I fucking love you and that I would never lie to you about what had happened the night before. I wouldn’t. I have no reason to and you have to understand that." Sergio owes him an apology, not the other way around, but he swallows his pride. "Please, Sergio?”

Sergio shuts off the water and dries his hands with the hand towel that had been lying on the counter a few feet away from where he stands and shakes his head. “I want to believe you, Cris, I truly do but I… I can’t seem to accept that Leo would simply make something like that up.” They've both spent every emotion that they have and are left with calm. Sergio leans against the counter and watches as his… as Cristiano places the last of the tomatoes into the bag and dries his own hands. “I love you, Cris. You know that…” and love doesn’t fade so quickly, it isn’t there one day and gone the next. He feels it being tested, this love shared between the two of them, and he can only pray over becoming as strong as Cristiano had been when they... When he... 

Sergio shakes his head, shakes away the memory. ((Nothing)). They're not built the same, built to withstand the same though. Instead, he thinks back to the conversation he had held with Lionel only an hour before, remembers the conviction in his emotion laced voice, remembers how defensive the little attacker had been over what he had shared with his… with Cristiano. “...but Fabio saw the two of you. You weren’t answering the phone and he’s saying that…”

“I can’t believe that you would trust Leo’s words over my own, that you would trust him before you would even consider trusting me,” Cristiano scoffs as he turns away from the Sevillan, unwilling to hear the answer or see the face of the other man should he choose to say anything in response, and makes his way down the hall to check in on his son. He pulls his lips in between his teeth and bites into the flesh of them as he opens the door and peeks inside, smiling at the small boy sprawled across the mattress. He quietly closes the door again and turns to find the Spanish man only a couple of feet away from him. “It just hurts… Being punished for something you haven’t done or had no control over. It was just a…”

“It’s not a matter of trust, Cristiano,” Sergio interrupts as he makes his way into Cristiano’s bedroom and falls back into the clutches of the fine sheets, silently praying that he hasn’t landed himself in the devastation of Cristiano and Irina. After a few seconds of lying there, he sits up and reaches over to grab Cristiano’s cell phone off of the nightstand, eyes darting over to Cristiano as he searches for any sign of panic or concern. ((Nothing. Nothing. Nothing)). “It’s a matter of not playing into the ‘he said, she said’ bullshit.” He smiles softly as Cristiano’s features remained unwavered as he scrolls through the phone and stretches out a hand, inviting his… Cristiano to join him on the bed. Sergio pulls the other man onto his lap, pulls his legs onto either side of his body with the other's cell phone still in hand, and leaves small kisses on the hands of the Portuguese man, lips slowly making their way up the arm, across the shoulder of the other man, and onto the neck of the winger... “Pilar sent me out for tomatoes. If I come back too soon, she would probably get suspicious.” Love doesn't die so quickly.

He doesn’t actually care for the texts and he doesn’t care for the emails. He doesn’t care for the list of incoming and outgoing phone calls, the in app messaging services. No, he doesn’t care about the history, about what may or may not have been. Let the past stay in the past... for now

-

Neymar is still trying to figure out what is going on with Leo when the phone of the other man starts to ring and vibrate. He watches it for a moment, tilts his head approvingly as the other man seeks his blessing to answer amidst their conversation. Not wanting to overhear whatever empty thing he is probably going to tell Antonella - or worse, Cristiano - he quietly makes his way into the kitchen and turns on the faucet, soaking his hands and ultimately his face as the water falls cooly against his flesh. He feels overwhelmed by the abundance of information he has just taken in and finds himself extremely disappointed with the way today has been playing out so far. He just wants to crawl into his bed, to wake up and to learn that today had never happened, or even that it is the weekend and that David will be coming home soon. He smiles as he thinks of his little boy. His son. His constant. His sun. His universal center. Regardless of whatever may change between Leo and himself, he still has his son to keep him warm, to love and to be loved by, and he knows that ultimately that is all that will ever matter.

After some time has passed, Neymar slowly, cautiously makes his way back out into his living room, eyebrows furrowing curiously as he realises that there are no sounds coming from the other room. He stops as he finds Leo pale-faced (paler than usual, that is) and mouth agape, seemingly in a state of shock and disbelief as his phone seems to be glued to his ear.  “Leo...?” he whispers as he makes his way back over to the sofa and sits closely beside the other forward. “Leo. Are you alright?” He waits. Seconds, minutes. He waits. He grows impatient. He reaches over and removes the phone from the number ten’s ear, confusion deepening as the other doesn’t even flinch at the removal. He glances down at the screen and frowns as Cristiano’s name lights up against the pixels of the display. “Leo… What happened?”

"Nothing." ((Something)). "Nothing at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> состояние ((disposition))
> 
> Глупый , глупый мальчик. ((Silly, silly boy))


	13. A Love Like Static ((The Greatest Somethings))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had always had something but even the most somethings will become nothing without some form of containment, without some form of definition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Sexual Content (Non-Explicit) || Homophobia

It's something cataclysmic. The way his knuckles are turning white as his fingers wrap tightly around the base of the bars of his headboard. Labored breathing breaking for his moans and he's fairly certain that his bottom lip has started bleeding between his own teeth; blood stains his tongue. It's an apocalypse of sorts, or so it feels as one, reads as one. He's looking at an end. He closes his eyes tightly, looks no more. He doesn't see a sun crashing down through the sky, fall through the hole they've created in their own destruction, but he feels the burn intensify as it edges closer to the surface. He throws an arm over his eyes, tries to cope as his insides are set ablaze, as salty water creeps and streaks along his sweat stained flesh. A war is waged; pain overtakes pleasure. Checkmate. He opens his mouth to vocalize his distress but finds himself confined to grunts and whimpers, inaudibles and jumbled syllables. He doesn't see the sun fall through the sky but he's looking at an end; it's nothing like them. The feelings restrict themselves to the nerves of flesh, reaching yet never touching the nerves of his soul, the feelings dance in the raw, unfiltered light of a burning touch. He needs them now more than ever, needs a touch from a time before, but the sun has fallen through the sky and he is willing to take all that Sergio is willing to give to him.

It's something somber. It's something bleak. The way that he's on his stomach with hands roughly gripping and tugging at his hair, the way he's writhing beneath the other force. He feels those teeth nibbling at the flesh of his neck, nibbling away at all of their "had beens". He doesn't see the clouds sweeping across the sky but he knows that there are no more traces of blue remaining. The image grows dimmer, the saturation slides down and he struggles to see the light at the end of this, their survival of this. His face is shoved into the sheet-covered mattress and he struggles to breathe as fingers force bruises around the rises of his hip bones. Thunder without sparks of electricity to break through the air, molecules seperating and crashing loudly together; a language barrier forms though words have little, nothing to do with the exchange as sounds of skin slapping skin fill the empty pockets around them, drown out any traces of meaning within the spaces between them... It's emptying. It's something somber. He's looking at an end; it's nothing like them.

It's something odious. It's something abhorrent. The way his hot breath dances along his spine filled with shallow, selfish intent, the action a means to merely distract him from the painful burning somewhere around the base of his torso. He doesn't see the embodiment of death, doesn't see the blood spilling out but he senses the life departing, senses the spirit rising from a has been soul. Fingers play at the parting of his lips, fingers dance into his mouth, salt staining his tongue by way of calloused skin. Last gasp breaths materialize as distant moans. He's strangled by feelings, he chokes. Lips lapping at the base of his neck soon replaced by a firm hand; he winces as he feels teeth sinking into his shoulder, as he feels Sergio burying himself deeper and deeper within him, winces as he burns. Bruising, sweat, and teeth. It's something odious. He's looking at an end; no, it's nothing like them.

It's something malicious. The way his head spins as he feels the other man’s hip bones digging into the muscles of his ass, the way his body begs for more as his mind screams enough, his very pleasure bleeding pains as he loses them. It's vicious, the way he's being torn apart as he feels the motion of those powerful hips still; his heart flutters in apprehension as he hears the defender desperately trying to catch his breath. He can see, can feel, can hear no more. He wonders yet he doesn't speak, refrains from saying anything out of fear of pushing or pulling. Nostalgia overtakes him, consumes him, buries him. It's sinister, the way he's buried, the way he's pulled under. He feels the Spaniard's forehead fall against his neck and he hears what sounds like a defeated sigh just before he feels the point of a nose gently travelling across the surface of his skin. It's vicious. It's malicious. Two heartbeats slowing, lips finding flesh where the corner of a neck meets a collarbone. Fingers falling out of a mouth to trace lips, fingertips tracing the dips, valleys, and curves of a back, of a side and he feels his eyes close as he slips back into them... Sudden stillness. Emptiness. Nothing. It's malicious. It's vicious. He's looking at an end but he keeps turning to look over his shoulder; it's nothing like them.

There is a moment, a pause, an instance of mutual hesitation just before there are sounds of sheets ruffling. Eyelashes fanned over his cheekbones, he draws in a deep inhale, subconsciously smiles as his senses find the scent of the other - his shampoo, his cologne, his body wash all blending together to form his distinct fragrance - staining the pillowcase beside him. He knows that he won't wash it for a week at the very least. A soft sigh followed by even softer sounds. His eyes flutter open: reality. Cristiano flips himself over, draws his eyebrows together in a mask of confusion as he finds Sergio already on his feet, dressing. “What’s, what’s wrong? I… I thought that this was what you wanted?” It's over, it's done... but the sun has already fallen through the sky. It's over. It's done.

Weights of regret chained around his ankles, he climbs out of the bed and hesitantly picks up his own clothing from off of the floor, wincing a bit as he's still sore from what they had actually done. Eyes thrown around the room, he finds his previously discarded clothing, tosses them into his hamper as he pulls fresh ones from out of his drawers as his confusions fill him as water rushing damn walls. He preoccupies himself with odd jobs, does anything to keep himself from laying his disappointment bare, but silent spaces are the heaviest spaces and avoidant gazes are the most telling. He shifts uncomfortably. It's all so quiet ((sh, whisper)). It's all too quiet. He listens for any sounds of movement coming from out in the halls, sounds of toys being shoved around or of pans being pulled out of their respective cabinets but he hears nothing. He figures that Junior must still be asleep and he finds himself thankful as he searches for more words... ((sh, whisper)).

He shoves the button of his shorts through its loophole, wanders over to the younger man, unsure of what it is that he should do or say as he's unsure of what has caused the sudden change within the Spaniard. He reaches out but he stops himself as he's not quite certain of whether or not he should touch the other, afraid that the other could topple over in some way at the contact. Shifts incite earthquakes, incite collisions that build tornados and already, already suns have fallen. ((Sh, whisper)). “What’s wrong?” he repeats, much softer this time though his voice breaks over the second word.

It's as if he sees for the first time: disbelief stirred in with a teaspoon of confusion. The defender simply shakes his head and laughs breathily at himself; the sound seems to escape from some tear that has formed within his soul and he finds himself appalled by the lack of control he seems to have over his emotions. "I'm so fucking stupid," he whispers as he sits at the edge of the bed, elbows resting against his knees, fingers threading anxiously through his own hair. His needs align with his wants, his wants with his needs but there's a canyon-like void that keeps his wants, his needs still beyond his reach. Keeps him beyond his reach and he needs to fill that gap, build a bridge to reach him because he's found that he crashes and burns in his attempts to fly. Has crashed. Has burned. ((So fucking stupid)). He dares himself to look up, finds those hypnotic eyes and falls into them over and over again; broken records repeat. He catches himself, catches the needle replaying his feelings back to him in rapid repititions. His wings have broken, he'll fly no more and he looks to his hands, dejectedly resorts to a time devouring "Plan B". He'll fly no more but still, still he hopes.

“I can’t…" but he chokes on the words that the thought anchors itself to, chokes down the audibles of despair that are now bleeding out of that rip in his soul. He takes a moment, silently curses all of the time they are losing, before he finds composure, finds his voice. "I thought I could do this but I can’t, Cris. I thought we could just... but we could never be just anything.” He shakes his head and smiles simply because his emotions are tied to the wrong forms of expression and he finds himself completely and utterly fucked up. "I love you too much to just... You know that. I want nothing more than to be with you, for you to be with me... Fuck. It's supposed to be me and you, you and me against the fucking world but this shit...? This shit right here? It's like a slow suicide." Tears staining cheekbones. "I don't know what I was thinking." He laughs because he realises that he hadn't been thinking. "Maybe I thought, maybe I just thought oxygen. Maybe I figured that sometimes you need the thing that kills you to keep you alive but this..." he trails as he finds the word. ((Us)). "It's almost like I hate you. I hate you because I love you too much." ((I love us too much)). The lines between the two are starting to burn to ash under the intesity of their love, the intensity of their hate; passion is passion and what is love, what is hate but two sides of the same coin. Faces fade with wear, heads become tails and tails, heads.

He trails, he wonders, he thinks, he stiffens as he feels the mattress sinking beside him. He's working against himself now, against his nature. He's wired to be with Cris so as he feels himself leaning into the warmth of the other body -- he pulls away. As a thumb attempts to swipe away straying moisture, he finds himself unwilling ((but wanting, oh, he wants)) to fall prey to that intoxicating touch for a second time. “What was supposed to happen? What was I...? We have sex and suddenly everything is supposed to be okay?" He slaps at his cheeks lightly, pinches the jean covered flesh of his thighs. He tries to focus on the pain categorized as controllable, tries to distract himself from the unsoothable cuts, scrapes, and bruises he can't reach. "It's not okay, Cristiano. I'm not, I'm not okay."

“Daddy, I want quesadillas!” This, them, they shatter with the words as the hands of time catch them there, staring into the eyes of one another. A little body appears in the doorway, sleepy eyes beneath wild hair with a soft smile playing on thin lips, distracting the two men from one another momentarily. “With chicken in them and lots and lots of cheese.” The little boy smiles as his sights find Sergio and he runs up to the other man, hugs the defender and giggles as he's lifted for a raspberry to be blown against his tummy. As his giggles die down, the questions rise. “Were you and Daddy playing video games?" "Can I play next?" "Did you win, Sergio?” The little boy lowers his voice and leans in a bit, smirks as his eyes dart quickly to his father. "Why is Daddy's shirt off?"

Roses bloom on Sergio’s cheeks and Cristiano’s removed his head from his neck and has replaced it with a massive tomato as he realises that he'd forgotten to lock the bedroom door behind them. If Junior had awakened any earlier ((god forbid)), the conversation would be different, more awkward than he's currently feeling. He's silently thankful and he smiles. “We were just playing video games but daddy spilled something on his shirt. Why don’t you go wait for us out in the living room?" His smile deepens as the little boy nods and leans in to leave Sergio with some parting words. "I’ll make you some chicken quesadillas when we’re finished talking. It won’t take long, I promise.” He sees Sergio smiling behind the young boy as Junior runs out of the room; the image burns itself into the spirit of his soul. He wants to walk up to the Andalusian, wrap him in his arms, smirk against his ear and fill him with the assurances that he’s going to make an amazing father... but the sugar filled thoughts dissolve as he hears the mumbled "you're such a great liar."

It's shattering. It's dispiriting. It's simply awful. He goes to rebuke the remark, wants to put Sergio in his place because when has he ever except in the protection of them, but a “Cris! I’m back!" disrupts his attempts, derails his thoughts and sends them crashing. Eyebrows furrow and his forehead wrinkles as "You better hurry or you’re going to be late!" follows the announcement of his mother's presence. The "Whose car is that parked out in the driveway?” goes completely ignored as he tries to wrap his head around the development.

Cristiano and Sergio exchange glances of mutual confusion as Delores’ voice fills the house along with the sounds of her keys hitting a hard surface. “Mom? What the fuck are you doing here?” He threads his fingers through his hair but he chokes down his rising anger as he finds his son standing in his doorway again. “Junior, you look at me. You do not say that word -- ever. You hear me?” ((“Why not, Daddy?”))

He feels as if he's stuck in fast forward, living at twice the speed of most and he can't seem to process any of it outside of the red markers. It has only been a couple of hours since he had last spoken with her, since he had kicked her out of his house, and he isn't quite ready for round two yet, may never be ready for round two. Minutes, hours, moments. His chest still feels heavy over the exchange and he still finds himself wanting to talk to Sergio about what had happened between himself and his mother, about what she had said to him. He contorts his body to where he faces the other, moves his lips as if to speak, yet his thoughts choose silence, no words. He needs to hear that everything will be okay, needs to know that he still has someone, at least in one way if not in another... but he knows that Sergio needs to hear, needs to feel the same things. He chooses silence.

“Oh, so you have someone else you’d rather watch Junior!?" She chuckles but she's far from amused. "Eu sei que você está com raiva de mim, meu filho, but even you know that I’m best option when it comes to caring for Junior in your absence. Is that why that car is here? Who is that? I’ve been with Junior since his birth and if you think…”

Her words are starting to jumble together, she's starting to lecture him and ramble and he still doesn't know why she's here. "Mom. What the fuck are you talking about?” Cristiano shakes his head as Sergio stops smiling in Junior’s direction and gives him another questioning look. He can see the questions in the other's eyes but he'll only answer the questions if they're asked verbally, doesn't want Sergio's affections and love rooted in pity. “It’s just Sergio’s car and we were just… Wait, what do you mean in my absence?”

((“Fuck!”)) “Junior! No,” three voices shout simultaneously. ((“You don’t say that word, young man.”)) ((“Hey, you respect your father. He asked you to not.”)) ((“I’m going clean your mouth out with soap! Who taught you to say such filthy things?”)) The little boy feels as if he's won with three pairs of eyes on him so he blushes and says nothing, smile still painting his features under the attentions.

She's not here to fight but her youngest, it's as if he hasn't taken the gloves off yet. It's okay. She can take a few hits. Delores releases an exaggerated exhale and scratches delicately at her hairline as she looks to her grandson, speaks to her son from afar. “So are you not going to Andalusia tonight? I checked the schedule you gave me and it says you’re supposed to be in Seville to play Betis tomorrow.” ((“Fuck!”)) ((“Shit!”)) ((“Fuckshit!”)) ((((((“JUNIOR!”)))))) She appears in the doorway and scoops Junior into her arms, wagging her finger in front of the little boy's face as Cristiano pulls the hem of a shirt past the band of his shorts. She looks between her son and Sergio and pauses for a moment, remembers that the Spanish man is Cristiano’s captain and waits for Cristiano to head into the bathroom to pull together his toiletries in haste.

“He’s troubled, you know,” she states rather softly as she places Junior back down, ushers the boy towards the playroom ((“Go grab some of your cars and bring them into the family room, okay?”)). She looks over her shoulder as she rubs at an itch beneath her nose, assures herself that her son is preoccupied with the gathering of his things. “He broke up with Irina just this afternoon and now he’s telling me that he likes men. Not just likes them, Sergio. He really, really likes them, he says. Can you believe that?” She sighs, clicks her tongue and shakes her head as she stares out of the open window just beyond the Spaniard. A moment passes, then another as she looks carefully at her nails and holds them out so she can inspect them even further. “Hopefully you can talk some sense into him before this all goes too far. He says that he just broke up with a boyfriend or something, or that his boyfriend just broke up with him and that he's hurt. I just hope that this other man, I hope he's not too angry because you and I both know that Cristiano’s career would be over if this, if this little phase of his ever comes to the surface. You wouldn't let that happen to him, would you?”

((Cristiano’s career would be over if this [...] ever comes to the surface. You wouldn't let that happen to him, would you?)) ((Would you?)) ((Would you?))

+ 

He's choking on his words, like he always does, finds himself incapable of forming even a single syllable response. He finds himself somewhere in the middle, somewhere in between breathing out a truth and feeding himself a comforting lie. Swallowing a “you know, this is my fault” and regurgitating an “I don’t deserve this.” Reverse. Repeat. Choke. Reverse. Repeat. Choke. His thoughts, his feelings: disconnected from one another. Logic contradicting emotion, emotion battling logic. Broken records repeat.

He feels the cushion beside him sinking down beneath the other's weight but he still isn't ready to greet the curious eyes of the younger man, isn't quite yet ready to be found so he keeps his gaze trained on his own thighs, leaves his thoughts unattached to words. ((I can't see you, you can't see me. You can't see me, you can't judge me)). He's torn between humiliation and his need for validity, torn between the draw and the defeat. He has just defended something – someone, them – only to find “them” to be emptier than he had supposed them to been. Only to realize that he was defending something – someone, them – he didn’t truly understand. He's, he's something but he's still struggling come to grips with that something, to label it, define it.

After a time - a few seconds, minutes, perhaps an hour, who can be sure? - he feels an arm fall over his shoulders, feels himself being pulled into the warmth of the wiry other body, and he appreciates the closeness, the presence so he doesn’t pull away but he... Words. Stupid words. “I mean, it’s honestly nothing, Ney,” he hears himself weakly choke out and he wants to slap himself because it just sounds ((so fucking pathetic)). Denial comes easily. He sighs dejectedly into the chest of the smaller body, nuzzles his nose a bit further into it. Words. Stupid words. “It’s not like we ever defined anything” …and they hadn’t but still he wants to slap himself harder still because he thinks, he knows that rationalizing what he's just heard is a step below denial and he feels himself losing all sense of his own self respect.

He shakes his head, chuckles into the chest of the Brasilian because it feels like it's the only thing he hasn't done yet. From their very beginning, he and Cris had been static: alcohol and fragile admiration at their foundation, blurry memories and voiceless conversations forming their pillars. They had always had something but even the most somethings, the greatest somethings will become nothing without some form of containment, without some form of definition. ((What happened in Zurich?)) Action with unspoken intentions to answer questions and lines that will never meet others, lines that never surrounded, never defined.

“I know we’ve only known one another for a few years, Leo,” Neymar sighs out as he inhales the fragrance of Leo’s cologne and shampoo, smiles softly at the familiarity of the dolce fragrance, “but you’ve never been one to spend tears on nothing.” He's suppressing his anger within the moment, swallowing his childish need to say “I told you so” because, even for something involving Cristiano, it seems to be too sudden of a shift in dynamic and surely, he feels that surely there must’ve been a reason, something to knock over the dominos to lead to Leo crying in his arms. A reason that certainly isn’t good enough but a reason nonetheless. He wants to understand more than he needs to be right.

“I’m not, I’m not crying,” Leo stutters out as he lifts his fingertips to the skin beneath his eyes, sighing in defeat as he feels light moisture gathered there. “Fuck. I don’t mean to cry, at least.” He pulls away from the winger and quickly dries his eyes, shakes his head at himself as he examines his hands. “I don’t even know why I’m… It’s not like Cris and I sat down and talked about what was going on between us or anything. It’s not like I said that I wanted to be exclusive or anything. I just kind of assumed… I just… I thought he saw me as something special, you know? We weren’t just fucking. We were… We were incredible together and I just thought that…” Leo sighs as he threads his fingers through his hair and he allows himself to chuckle again. “I’m such a naïve little bitch, aren’t I?”

Neymar laughs breathily and pulls the other man back into him, smiles softly as he does his best to digest Leo’s words and emotions, tries to figure out if it's words that the other needs or if it happens to be something more. He tosses the cell phone onto the end table and thinks a bit more about the name that had flashed across the screen, connects it to what Leo had been saying. It just didn’t seem like Cristiano to call Leo just to let him know that he was having sex with other people – Antonella and Irina weren’t necessarily in the shadows of either of the two’s lives – and Leo wasn’t acting as if Cristiano had rang him simply to be cruel. Even so, the winger still doesn’t think that the number ten would be this affected by hearing Cristiano screw Irina’s brains out or vice versa (he doesn’t know how Cris likes it, he doesn’t want to assume). Perhaps someone else had called, someone who knew about Cristiano and Leo – Sergio or Iker – or perhaps Cristiano had accidentally dialed Leo and the latter had overheard an exchange?

Regardless, he has been lost in his thoughts and he has been quiet for too long, he realises “You’re entitled to your own feelings, Leo. That doesn’t make you a bitch or anything, just human. Feeling. It doesn’t make you naïve either. I guess it, it makes you committal… In a really weird, really fucked up kind of way.”

((This isn’t you, Leo)). Loyal. Emotional. Secure. Clingy. Sympathetic. Patient. Understanding. Words he’s been stuck with throughout the entirety of his life. He pulls the arm of the Brasilian from off of his shoulder and slides a bit further down on the sofa, creates a small gap between the two bodies.

((This isn't you, Leo)). Conservative. Nurturing. Committed. Humble. Modest. He contorts his body until he's facing the other, his knees gently colliding with the other set of knees, and he thoughtfully cards a hand through his own hair. He finds the features of the number eleven, his eyes bright and shining, his smile luminous and seeming to devour his face. Leo can tell that Neymar is attempting to light something within him - a spark, a realisation, an epiphany - and he can appreciate the effort...

((This isn't you, Leo))...so he smiles back as he closes the gap between the sets of smiling lips. Unpredictable. Volatile. Oh, how they love to leave that trait out.

Leo's phone springs to life almost immediately, pulls him from the taste of home, tastes of South America as a reminder flashes across the screen. One word: Levante. He sighs as he remembers that the squad will be there for a few days for both a league and a Copa fixture and he finds himself unready... He's not ready to take the stage again, not ready to line up against and face himself again. He simply smiles at Neymar, presses his forehead against the other and squeezes the Brasilian's thigh ever so gently. He breathes out a "thank you for listening". He rises to his feet and he leaves.

Neymar doesn't even ask, he's beyond questions and inquiries as he simply watches the other go, a bewildered expression marring his features as he traces his lips with his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first paragraphs (("It's something [adjective]")) depict Cris' relationship with his conflicted feelings, not his interpretation of the sex.


	14. Our Stars Have Fucked Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Psychosis || Infidelity || Emotional Infidelity

((He feels like he's frolicking in hell's seventh circle)). His calves are on fire and his whole body is sore and stiff, he feels as if he wants to collapse and he does just that as soon as he finishes emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He doesn't bother removing himself from the bathroom floor; the tile is cool as it presses against his flesh and his dignity left him with his stomach acids, he has nothing left to lose. He feels so shitty he actually considers climbing into the toilet but alas, that requires strength and he has expended all of his at the Estadi Ciutat de Valencia. Strength, time, energy he finds are non-refundable intangibles. He groans from the floor.

((He's skipping through the fires, letting the flames eat away at him, letting the flames consume him)). He revels, he burns in his recollection of the game. He hates Keylor Navas -- so he puts the keeper at the top of his mentally kept hit list because making one save of that magnitude is fine, making two is a death wish -- and he decides that he simultaneously hates and loves Pique's stupidly placed head on set pieces. He loves that the defender has salvaged a point for them with that stupidly placed head, hates that a defender has accomplished what he has failed to do in registering with that stupidly placed head, even defends with that goddamn head, veers the ball clear of danger and creates danger with that goddamn head. ((No matter)), he tells the voices on the rise, shaking his head as he slowly releases concentrated exhales, as he chokes down his frustrations and agitations with remnants of vomit. ((Estadi Ciutat de Valencia will not see the same Leo Messi twice)). His hands tremble. His body shakes. Everything is so loud, too loud.

((He's playing ding-dong-ditch and running from the Devil's front door)). He hears his own door open and he hears it close but he's shameless, he still can't be bothered enough to move from his place of dejection and sorrow on the bathroom floor and he knows that Alexis won't care enough to pass judgement. The Chilean has seen him in a similar position before, has simply laughed and had placed a foot on either side of him, has straddled him to take a piss over top of him before. He hears keys rattling ((why does Alexis have keys with him)) and hears a jacket sliding off of a body, being placed on a drawer or a table, a desk maybe. Hears "Leo" in a thick Portuguese accent. His hands tremble. His body shakes. ((Too loud. Too loud. Too loud)).

((He's been caught in the scourge of Lucifer's gaze, feels himself burning in torment and anguish)). He hates Keylor Navas. He loves and he hates Gerard Pique's head all at once. He hates Cristiano Ronaldo. "Leave", he shouts from his place on the bathroom floor, tears welling up around the edges of his eyes and pooling on the tile before him. He knows he must sound pathetic, must look pathetic -- everything about his current disposition rings as poignant -- but he hasn't asked for this. He hasn't asked for this talent, this pressure, and he hasn't asked for these fucked up feelings. "I don't, I can't see you right now." ((I can't see you. I can't see you. I can't see you)). "I don't want to see you right now"... but he does. He sees him there, standing in the doorway looking down on him. "Are you here to make me feel like even more shit because there's honestly no need and you can leave now." He snivels and attempts to look away from the towering figure, does as he presses his face into the tile. It hurts. He doesn't care. "You score in the bedroom as much as you score on the pitch, huh? And I was just - what? - goals two hundred and two hundred one?" He hates how he sounds; he and Cris have never established anything and already, already he hears himself sounding to be jealous and possessive, territorial over a person he has no claim to but he can't help it. He feels, he feels, he feels too much. He feels a hand rubbing circles against his back, feels strong arms pulling him in, feels warmth. He says "no" as he nuzzles into the other's neck, "no" as he spills tears on broad shoulders, says "no" but screams "yes". His hands tremble. His body shakes.

((It was a misunderstanding)), he says... and he believes him, allows him to pepper his flesh with light, feathery kisses. ((I was just upset that you had told Xavi, that Xavi had told Iker)), he says... and he believes him, allows him to slowly undress him and to rub the tension and ache out of his muscles. ((It didn't mean anything. We can't be replicated with anyone else)), he says... and he believes him, allows him to touch every inch of his being both inside and out, to consume him completely. ((I love you)), he says. ((You complete me)), he says... and he believes him, allows himself to fall back into those arms, to fall further still.

+

It's echoed chaos entwining with mutters of "oh, shut the fuck up, you whore". It's various game breakdowns and analysis with curses and whispers of "It's official. There are no qualifications necessary to become a sports pundit". He's a ball of pure rage and frustration; he's fighting off the urge to get up, to press his face against the pixelated screen to give that "goddamn Madridista ass licking piece of shit" commentator a piece of his mind... but his ankle is throbbing and the effects of his array of various painkillers are just starting to take hold. He groans as he's forced by his better judgement to remain on the couch for a while longer, at least until whatever active ingredient sets in. He dares that man to say something stupid again though. He fucking dares him.

((I am not made for this cushioned bench)), he decides rather quickly as he hears and sees the game commentators casting their attentions back to the pitch, sees the screen transition from an edgy modern studio to the Levante stadium. Someone is rattling off the new lineup with the changes that had been implemented at the half, breaking down the shifts in the formations while theorizing how Barça will snatch a lead to "rebound from the draw they had suffered in this very stadium only days ago". He hates his body for having been so weak against Getafe, that his body has kept him from suffering and fighting alongside his teammates at the Estadi Ciutat de Valencia. He glares down at his ankle and he shakes his head as he feels overtaken by a wave of something... Whatever feeling it is, he doesn't get to dwell in it for long as sounds of knocking edge their way to him. He dismisses the sounds rather easily though as David is home; the boy is supposed to be playing videogames in his room (because Daddy's language isn't the greatest when Barça are playing but they always watch the replays together) but he wouldn't have been surprised if the little boy has gotten into his toys.

He smiles as he sees each of his teammates take to the pitch for the second half, the corners of his lips rising higher ever so slightly as the ten makes his way out before the Levante faithful; he always looks so small on that great big stage, they all do. He's still smiling as one of the commentators sounds off on Leo's statistics thus far but he drops the corners of his lips to roll his eyes at the mentioning of Cristiano, that Cris had failed to register in Real Madrid's narrow victory against Espanyol the day before and that Leo has as of yet to score. He really wishes that they'd stop doing that. He had watched the game from the day before and Espanyol's fire had been rather impressive but Iker's breathtaking save had been more so. He dismisses the match images from his memory as the two Catalan clubs make their way to their starting positions, noting that Leo's dropped back to the midfield. The knocking persists...

...and he finally realises that it's coming from the opposite direction of David's room, that it's coming from the front door on the opposite side of the house. He places the television on mute and cautiously finds his feet, anticipating a wave of pain but feels nothing as the effects of his medications are now in full swing. He smiles, relieved. He tosses his remote onto the sofa and wonders why the whoever isn't using the doorbell as he ambles over to the door, voices as sing-song "I'm coming" as he glances back at the flickering images of the match from over his shoulder. ((Still getting into position)). He glances outside, frowns as he sees no car and tries to figure out who could be ((knocking)) on his front door. Most of his friends would simply walk into his home and the ones who refuse to, they always text him first to let him know that they are coming; most of his friends are in Valencia though and the ones who aren't would never knock. Nevermind that, he decides. He must know whoever it is because they have his gate key and so he hesitates no longer, doesn't bother with putting on a shirt and opens the door in only his sweats. He regrets his decision immediately.

Neymar's been having a "the fuck" filled week thus far so he really shouldn't be as surprised as he is when he opens the door to find Cristiano Ronaldo on his doorstep yet here he is, looking at the man with wide, bulging eyes and a jar filled with confusion at a loss for words. He sees Cristiano tighten his lips to form a thin smile and he looks around him for signs of any of Cris' other teammates but even he knows that Madridistas never stay in Barcelona long after a match (as Culés never stay long in Madrid) so he's not entirely shocked to find the other alone... but Cris must get a sense of what he's doing because he assures him that he's come to him unaccompanied, solus for now. Sergio is set to arrive the following day shortly after the Barcelona squad comes back from Levante, he tells him as if in warning, but he doesn't disclose much more information whilst standing on the doorstep.

Neymar chooses to simply nod in response and he doesn't even bother asking him why he's there because he figures that it has something to do with Leo, something to do with the happenings of a week before but Leo... Leo had texted him with a shit ton of happy faces, exclamation points, and only God knows what else as he had informed him (much to his dismay though it had been bittersweet) that he and Cris have worked things out.

((Maybe Leo has sent him)), he supposes as he invites the other in, ((to build bridges)). He steps aside, offers the other winger a bottle of water that is respectfully declined as he guides him to the living room. Cristiano compliments his decor while Neymar vocalizes his admiration for Cristiano’s rocketed goal against Real Betis in the last league match, swoons over the bicycle assist he had given Morata as a result of an attempt on goal. He smiles as Cris smiles under the praise and he starts to see what Leo must have seen in the Madridista but at the same time, at the same time it bothers the hell out of him. He and Cris are so much alike, have always been quite alike: in their attitudes, in their style of play, in their personalities, born under the same stars before rising to become them. It's irksome.

He shows Cristiano into the living room before he politely dismisses himself, leaves the other to watch Levante take on Barça in solitude but only for a moment as he quickly checks in on his son. He peeks into the room and he sees that David is still engaged with his video game and he gives the little boy a fifteen minute warning that is acknowledged before he makes his way back out to his guest, smiles as the other asks him in that stupid kind of Portuguese if he should be walking on his ankle. He shakes his head because, honestly, no. No he should not be walking on it... but he knows that neither of them want to talk about his ankle injury in that moment, if ever.

He allows himself to fall into the place directly beside Cristiano and contorts his body to where he's facing him, pulls his good ankle beneath him in the name of comfort. "I have a pretty good idea of why you're here," Neymar starts as the Portuguese man leans forward and rests his elbows against his knees. "I know that it has something to do with Lionel but I don't know much else, to be honest. I only just... Maybe a week ago." He recalls how distressed Leo had been while he was over, how affected by that call he had been; he swears that he's a good Christian and that he likes Cristiano enough to respect and to maybe even admire him, but he genuinely does not want to help Cristiano get back into Leo's good graces. Sure, Lionel has said that they have worked it all out but he still feels as if Leo's taken him back with circumstances, feels as if their friendship may be a circumstance. "I don't even know..." he trails as Cristiano falls prey to laughter.

Cristiano can't help it. He laughs because those four words have defined him over the past few weeks. He laughs until he's red in the face, until tears are streaking down and staining his cheeks, until his body begs him for oxygen. He laughs and he laughs until he doesn't, until those boisterous, jovial sounds turn to wrecked sobs and choked inhales, until one induction of cataplexy blurs into another. He shakes his head, looks pitifully at the Brasilian and wonders why Leo doesn't just... ((Why me?)) "He's ruining my life, Neymar, and I don't, I don't know why he's doing this to me. My own son, my own son told me that he hated me and my mother...? Fuck her."

Neymar feels offended for Leo and is finding the words to put Cris in his place but a phone is shoved into his hands, Cristiano’s phone is shoved into his hands with messages exchanged between Leo and Cris on display. He sees the date and the time of the first message and he recalls ((Leo, Cristiano, fucking, Zurich, last night, Madrid)). He goes to speak but is once again beaten.

"I was in Spain," Cristiano chokes out, looking to Neymar as the younger boy studies the first four or five messages. "Nothing happened, nothing could have happened and yet he sends me this text, this stupid fucking text..."

((Leo, Cristiano, fucking, Zurich, last night, Madrid)). Leo had nearly missed their flight that following morning and had looked like a pile of beautiful shit as he had boarded. He reads the blame, reads where Leo points a finger at Cris and reads the confusion filled response. Cris had been in Madrid; he had seen the photos of Cristiano on the plane with his family, his friends but Leo... His head hurts and he looks to Cristiano for some reprieve, some form of clarity but Cristiano is looking at him with the same hope filled eyes. He shrugs.

Cris shakes his head, shrugs too, but points to the phone and continues speaking, hoping that as the words break between the two of them that the sense in all of this will be made bare and obvious. "I had flown back to Spain and he had texted me before you guys played that shit game against Getafe." He hears Neymar giggle before he hears his name cursed under the breath of the other and he allows himself to smile again, albeit briefly. "I thought it would be good because I thought he'd explain but he, he fell asleep while I was at Fabio's and he... He fucking kissed me when he woke up and left without any kind of explanation. Now I have Iker telling me that he knows that Leo and I are fucking, that Leo told Xavi and I..." He stops and shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, stares at the screen in front of him and watches as Leo assists Tello to his second goal of the evening, Leo's third assist on a scoreline that reads zero goals to three.

Neymar doesn't care that Barça are up, that Leo's having a wonderful four hundredth match for Barcelona as he tries to figure out what he's looking at and what it is that Cristiano is trying to say. His fingers slip and he finds himself looking into another conversation and suddenly the pieces start falling together. "That's why Sergio had called him," Neymar whispers more to himself though he can feel Cristiano’s curious gaze fall on him. He ignores it as he curiously reads the messages he has stumbled upon, Sergio's behaviour turning from his supposed homophobia to a product of betrayal, of jealousy. All so suddenly, he recalls Cris saying that Sergio will be here tomorrow and now he knows why. ((Whoa)). "You are so fucked," he mumbles solomnly as he hands his phone over to Cristiano, opening the texts between himself and Leo.

20140119: 2235

> **Neymar:** Saw the match. Just wanted to make sure you're doing okay. I know how you can get.
> 
> **Leo:** You know that feeling you get when you walk into a public bathroom and see a pile of shit sitting on the bathroom floor? I am that feeling, I am that pile of shit, Ney. Flush me.
> 
> **Neymar:** Haha. Never. ;)
> 
> **Leo:** I kissed you once. You kissed me once. That does not permit you to use the winky face.

"You're bisexual?" "Don't you have more important things to worry about than my sexuality like, I don't know, your life? ...because Sergio will end it." "No, he's not... He's not like that. You don't know Sergio like I do." "True. You don't know what it's like to be on the wrong side of Sergio."

> **Neymar:** Does it make you feel uncomfortable ;)
> 
> **Leo:** Quite.

20140120: 0421

> **Leo:** I have to tell you something Neymar...
> 
> **Leo:** Neymar.
> 
> **Leo:** Neymar.
> 
> **Neymar:** Leo. It is zero fuck thirty. Remember, dreaming about doing bad things isn't the same as actually doing them. Go back to sleep.
> 
> **Leo:** ...with Cris? Okay.
> 
> **Neymar:** What?
> 
> **Leo:** We worked it out, Ney! It was... I'm just so relieved. Get this...
> 
> **Leo:** ...wait for it...
> 
> **Leo:** ...wait for it, Neymar...
> 
> **Leo:** He told me that he loves me, Ney. That I complete him.

Tello has a hattrick as the final whistle blows and they can feel the heat from the Valencians from where they sit in the Catalonian captial. Leo has a double brace of assists under a one goal to four scoreline, seems to be elated with the jeers of the Levante faithful. David has something of a smile smeared across his face, eyes on the clock with his heart singing victory because it's been alot more than fifteen minutes. 


	15. Affected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a song //[ 9 Crimes by Damien Rice ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgqOSCgc8xc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The non-English language used within this C. is Catalan (something I need to point out because I used Spanish in the last update and didn't say that I did - I learned something pretty interesting and I thank the individual who taught me that something). The Catalan isn't being used to show language transitions or anything of the nature rather to show that these guys would be speaking Catalan rather than Spanish, to inject a little regional awareness. I typically use Spanish, as that is my first/second language and is also regionally relevant bar a few slangs, however, due to cultural and historical reasons I knew that using Spanish with these guys would probably result in a warranted, metaphorical black eye of sorts. So there's that... 
> 
> As always: Editing.

His surroundings have finally stilled, have finally calmed and – for what feels like the first time in days – he can finally breathe (though the stench of the locker room begs him otherwise). Everything around him, everything feels fresh, feels new, feels… different somehow. He smiles as he allows Alexis to finally succeed in catching his eye (and it feels nice), laughs as the Chilean begins to move his hips to the sounds being generated by his own iPod, shrinks as he finds himself on the end of a pointed, challenging finger (and it feels nice), shakes his head as he’s pushed into the euphoric mess of bodies he calls his teammates (and it feels nice).

He’s stuck between them until he’s not, until he’s sitting on a bench peeling off his shin guards, massaging the aching muscles of his calves, of his thighs (and it feels nice) as the managerial staff attempt to rush them into their street clothes – as they attempt and fail. ((It’s quiet)) though it’s anything but. Towels have been turned into whips, yesterdays grievances have been turned into tonight’s jokes, and laughter, laughter has filled the room and yet he manages to sit there in his silence (and it feels nice). The ticking has finally stopped, at least for the time being, and the voices… The euphoric high that comes with victories such as these seems to have lifted him to a place even out of their reach. He can’t hear them up here (and it feels nice). He thinks he’ll stay here for a while. Just for a while.

He can hear Adriano, can hear Bartra challenging an absent referee as they unload their frustrations on one another with perturbed smiles; feels Puyol ruffle his hair as the captain passes with Masche in tow, the other's "bon joc, germà" - (and it feels nice). A hand falls softly against his shoulder, a body into the place beside his own on the bench and he doesn’t need to turn to know whose body it is; he makes out the twenty on the other's kit with his peripheral and he smiles a soft smile. His shoulder is rubbing against the other’s bicep, the stench of their dirtied kits overpowered by the distinct, musky fragrance of Spaniard’s body spray and he finds himself forced to relinquish the comfort of his silence as he eventually finds the eyes of the other within his own gaze. “I heard you had a good game.” He feels his head being pulled into the chest of the other, feels the rising and falling of it, the palpitations of the winger’s heart as the younger man laughs (and it feels nice). It isn’t until he pulls away from the hug that he sees the shyness within it all, that he sees the blush painting the highs of the young Spaniard’s sharp cheekbones, the softness of Cristian’s smile and he finds himself wondering… ((no)). He's still young, still new to the feeling of being a team's, of being a city's hero. “I think it’s a shame we don’t play together more often,” and he hates the words as soon as they fall askew on his own ears – (“It’s a shame you can’t outmatch Neymar when he’s match fit”) – but the younger man is already dismissing his silent apologies, is regarding him as if he could do no wrong at all and it’s all so… ((no)). "We have great chemistry..." and he realises what he's done (but it's a little too late for retraction), realises and searches for an exit, for an excuse...

…but the other has already detected the curiosity within Leo's unguarded looks, has heard the question Leo would never dare to ask (and yet he has), would never give voice to with widened eyes and parted lips, with widened eyes filled with surprise and skepticism, filled with intrigue and wonder. ((Which is more?)) (Which is more?) He knows he should panic, should be concerned, knows what he should be but is calm nonetheless, is calm as he leaves his hand to grip his fellow forwards thigh just a little too high, thumb rubbing circles that are a little too friendly. What he’s doing is wrong, is so wrong – he knows this and yet he can’t stop himself because it all feels so… nice. It feels nice. He chews on his bottom lip because he isn’t too sure of how he’s supposed to anything, realises that he doesn’t need to anything as the eyes of the twenty eventually find his, frantically dart from his eyes to his lips, from his lips to his eyes. Back to his lips. He wonders what the boy is imagining those lips doing… ((no)). He wonders what the lips of the boy can do… ((no)). Knows the boy is wondering, too, as he notices the unnoticeable: corners of perfectly pink lips turning upwards ever so slightly. (He's still young, still new to the feeling of being a team's, of being a city's hero).

The music is still a little too loud, is still echoing off of the tiled walls of the guest locker room and Alexis is still dancing a little too wildly with most of their teammates – albeit a kit lighter, a bottle of champagne heavier – and the staff seem to have already thrown in their white flags of surrender, are nowhere within sight making their escape into the showers almost too easy (but he isn’t going to file a complaint about that anytime soon). The curtain is two seconds closed and his hands have already explored most of the young forwards body, have already found those toned ridges and valleys of muscle and he finds himself eager to conquer the same territory with his eyes, with his lips and he… ((stop)). He doesn’t hold back as he desperately finds the boys lips with his own, moans because ((fuck, they’re so soft)) and groans as he is quickly admonished, quickly stilled. He’s pressed up against the wall with Cristian’s hand covering his mouth, watching as the Spaniard holds a single finger to his smirk infested lips - only centimeters from where he’s pinned - in an attempt to shush him. He plays the boy’s game; he waits and he listens. He listens and he can easily hear the water falling in both of the adjoining shower stalls - against tile, against flesh, grins against the palm of the boy as the idea of being caught only seems to arouse him further ((stop)).

He lets the boy peel his sweat-drenched jersey from off of his back, sighs as the weight of the crest, as the weight of that damned number is lifted from his chest and his back respectively; ((liberation)). His shorts follow soon after, are tossed between the gap above the curtain and into the mess of other soiled kits, and he searches the boy for any signs of hesitation, any signs of doubt or worry; he finds none. (The boy is still young, is still new to the feeling of being a team's, of being a city's hero). He searches, he wonders ((“Have you done this before”)) but the question remains in silence as impulse overrides his thought processes… ((no)). The boy’s lips are silk and he loses himself to them once again as the boy pulls his tongue into the hot-wet of his mouth, finds himself moaning against these young lips for a second time as the boy pulls him in (pulls him in, pulls him in). Apprehension gone; water is falling from above them, masks the sounds of his groans as he grinds himself against the unseasoned body of the other. No scars, no bruising… boy, boy, boy. The water is falling from above them, droplets crashing to tile, to flesh to mask the sounds of his moans, to mask the sounds of his groans.

+

The adrenaline had still been coursing through his veins when he had gone into the shower (for counterintuitive means), when he had – and he finds himself swiftly diverting his attentions, with thumb twiddling among other oddities, as Cristian walks by wrapped in nothing more than a towel, as Cristian casually thanks him ‘for looking out for him’ and for ‘helping him out’. ((“Sure thing, Cris")) as his amended ((“anytime”)) parts from his lips as no more than a hoarse whisper. The adrenaline had still been coursing through his veins when he had… Had been as in is no longer and the burning of his thighs is starting to register, the tightness of his calves and he finds himself longing for home, smiling with the knowledge that their next four matches will be at home. The pain pushes him past desperate for reprieve and he dresses with incessant haste – bar the moment Cristian’s towel slipped from his waist. (He’d checked his surroundings to ensure that no one had noticed him noticing… Had found that most of his teammates had still been in the showers or wrapped in towels, caught up in their own lockers). Regardless, he’s tossing his shower shoes into his bag of toiletries, looking towards the door as Tata barges into the room and looks towards him; he tries to make himself smaller, tries to make himself invisible because he’s far too tired to be having any kind of lucid discussion.  He’s fairly confident he already knows what the manager wants to discuss with him, anyway; he wants to talk about the formation; he wants to ask Leo if he’s comfortable; he wants to talk to Leo about Argentina, about Barcelona; he wants to share words and thoughts with him but Leo finds himself with none, inwardly pleading for the other to not. His pleas fall on deaf ears (kind of) as the other moves to pass him but hesitates, as the fat Argentinian leans in to tell him that they’ll be speaking upon their arrival in Barcelona and he nods. Later isn’t now and he supposes that’s okay.

He shouldn’t be as surprised as he is to see that Cristian is falling into the seat just beside his and yet, here he is, surprised. His cheeks flush as the boy smiles at him and he feels his breath getting caught in his throat as the number twenty throws an arm over his shoulder, pulls him into his chest in an awkward side hug. He knows that he doesn’t need to inform the winger of the presence of their teammates so he waits, waits to see what the forward could be up to… Scolds himself when Tello’s phone is held up in front of him and smiles that smile for what is a ((perfectly normal)) selfie. The twenty-two-year-old doesn’t even linger for longer than he should after securing the money shot; he simply pulls Leo into a less awkward hug, thanks him for what has to be fourth time, and heads back to the front of the bus where he finds a place next to Jordi. Perfectly normal… and yet he finds that he isn’t.

His legs are screaming at him, hell, he’s screaming at himself but he’s much too bothered to sleep now, much too bothered to rest. He knew that he had screwed up even before he had, knew that he was wrong even when he had still been in the right and now, now he needs some assurances. He can see Cristian’s head leaning against his backrest, knows he must be listening to music or something but he’s the one he needs to listen to, or so says he. He simply can't go on like this. He tugs on the sleeve of the twenty, doesn’t wait for a response before he pulls the earbuds from the Spaniard's ears, and finds the other caught in a look of confusion. “I think we should talk.” ((“Oh shit. He’s breaking up with you, Té. You have to understand, Leo isn’t the wingman type; he likes to be the one scoring, saps? You messed up, Té. You messed up. You’re hitting this transfer market this summer, només ha d'esperar i veure.”)) Cristian seems to have ignored the fullback completely and is, instead, finding his feet. Leo chuckles; that Tello knows that they’ll have to speak elsewhere means that Jordi’s reputation has preceded him. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, Jordi,” and he smiles as the defender smiles.

He's back in his seat and Cristian is looking at him expectantly, is waiting and Leo can see that the boy is nervous. ((“Did I do something to offend you or…”)) and he’s shaking his head because no, no he did nothing wrong at all; hell, he’s the one who’s done and is doing everything perfectly – a sizable chunk of him wants to ask how often the young man does this (he’s good, too good) but he knows that it’s not any of his business, that he shouldn’t even care. “I just think we need to talk about what happened between us and I…” but he stops himself as the other starts snickering. ((“Are you always like this, or…? Look, it was great – fuck, it was fantastic – but I know that it’ll probably never happen again so there’s nothing to talk about.”)) He hears and he listens, hears but something is missing, something isn’t right in the way… The boy, he isn’t as guarded as he should be, doesn't seem to be affected at all and Leo isn’t sure if it’s a coping mechanism or if this was Cris’ way but, whatever it is, whatever it is it crawls beneath the surface of his skin in the most unnerving of ways. Affect is something he rarely fails to produce.  


	16. What Say You, Tantalus? ((Reach))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings Applicable For This Chapter:** Angst

Foot on the gas and his surroundings blur. Windows down, fresh air coursing through his lungs and his nerves escape containment. His fingers are still clenched a little too tightly around the steering wheel -- he could have taken the train, a plane even -- he could have been there by now. No. No, he needs the time to find his thoughts, find his composure. 

He's reaching for the fruit and yet the vines will recede before they ever fall prey to his touch. He knows this and yet still he reaches. He's surrounded by the waters and he feels the thirst from within him arising, cool to the touch yet the water will never greet his tongue -- will never, could never. He knows this and yet still he reaches. He reaches never to find, he searches never to see his way out of this affliction, out of this torment, and yet still he's audacious enough to hope. He's tasted anguish and he knows that he'll taste more. He's felt heartache but he knows that he's only brushed the surface. It's too late to pull over, if he presses his ~~soul~~ sole against the brake now... suffer. If he presses the accelerator... suffer. Suffering is inevitable only whether it be by way of an unquenchable thirst or an unsatisfiable hunger remains to be told.

He's reaching for the fruit and yet the vines will recede before they ever fall prey to his touch... He reaches never to find simply because he doesn't know what else he is to do. He's stepping on an accelerator, desperate to find the closure he knows isn't there. He needs to know if the words he's allowed to destroy his trust, his love, ((them)) will recede and crumble and leave him empty handed. Allegations turn to ash. ((It never happened)). He eases off of the accelerator. ((Your own insecurities and distrust have ruined you)). Perhaps the flavours of the fruit stain his tongue but it won't matter; his body has run dry with demand. They've ended either way... ((Pick your poison)).

Still he reaches.

He's surrounded by the waters and he feels the thirst from within him arising, cool to the touch yet the water will never greet his tongue -- will never, could never... His foot scrapes against the brake yet he finds himself incapable of pressing. He wants to believe, wants to trust... Only a sledge hammer seemingly lies in wait, waiting to crush and shatter the delusions he feeds himself, the delusions that allow him to fall into bed with the other time and time again despite it all. ((It's true. Every word of it)). The car slows and pressure builds as tears bubble forth from the gash within, burn and line the ridges of his eyelids. ((The dominoes have fallen. Your mistake birthed his mistake birthed the end)). Perhaps the waters fill him, quench his thirst but it won't matter; his stomach has shrunk to naught with demand. They've ended either way... ((Pick your poison)).

Still he reaches. 

He squirms in his seat, grips his steering wheel a little tighter in his agitation, bites his lip until he stains his tongue with his own blood. He hates every fucking kilometer his odometer counts off (and he watches as another falls into the sights of his rearview) but he hates each one still lying before him a bit more. Questions cloud behind him as clarity lies before him, that blissful cloud of ignorance floating above him no longer within his sights. 

Signs for the C-32 and he's checking the time; six hours couldn't have found the past so quickly but oh, they have. He can easily admit that he feels as if he's at a loss, that he feels as if he's standing out in the middle of nowhere without any sense of direction, without any sense of purpose. He's overridden by his own confusions, his own doubts and insecurity, never to know if he's taking steps forward or taking steps back and yet still he wanders, still he reaches simply because he doesn't know what else to do. Signs for the C-32 and he's finding his regrets (or they're finding him), wishing that he had turned back as soon as he'd found Zaragoza's city limits, wishing he'd never left Madrid... He scolds himself. He'll swallow poison regardless, affliction regardless. Signs for the C-32 and he finds his exit though it will never, can never be the exit he's searching for, reaching for...

Still he reaches.

His fingers are trembling, palms sweating as he brings his navigation system to life and he pulls over in an attempt to calm himself, in an attempt to gather his thoughts. There's no sense in what he's doing and he knows as much; he's watering a dead flower, investing a piece of himself, something real in a memory, in a ghost and yet still, still he needs this...

Still he reaches. 

His fingers dance over the surface of his cell phone and his words are caught in his throat as the soft click and (("What's up, Sergio")) reaches him from the other end of the line. He moves his lips but nothing passes through them. A bead of sweat leaves his hairline and finds his cheekbones yet still, still his words fail to find anything outside of himself. (("Sergio, are you okay?")) He wants to tell him "no", wants to tell him anything, (fuck it (everything)), and yet he finds himself restricted to telling him what he's always told him: nothing. (("You seemed to be distracted at training this morning and I'm starting to grow concerned. Both you and Cris, since this whole Leo situation started... I mean, shit. At least you were at training this morning.")) He nods though the other can't see, remembers. (("I don't know what's going on with you but, uhm, I'm here if you need me. I just need you to know that")) ...and he does. (("Call me when you're ready to talk or swing by the house. Something.")) He says nothing but still...

Still he reaches.

Iker's given him the community code, information courtesy of a concerned Barça captain, and he's pressing it in as a bead of sweat betrays his otherwise calm demeanor. A camera twitches in some corner, his eyes find it and he flashes it a cool smile, confident that some security guard somewhere is going absolutely mental. (("Sergio Ramos? ...in Barcelona? Why? Why? Why?")) The gate lurches forward and so does he as he, too, tries to figure out ((why, why, why)) he's come. 

Another gate, another code, and he's parking in the drive of a one Lionel Messi as a beautiful woman makes her way towards him, the features of her face contorting just enough to convey her confusion of his presence and he feels his nerves on the rise. He recognizes her with ease and he offers a friendly wave as he unfastens his seatbelt with his free hand. "Hello, Antonella". His smile widens as her confusion turns delight and he can see that she's flattered that he knows who she is as a blush paints the highs of her cheekbones. "I've come in peace," he chuckles as he makes peace signs with his hands, shattering on the inside as he realises that, though he comes in peace, he will almost certainly leave in (even more) pieces. He climbs out of the car and makes his way over to the lovely woman, extends a hand and drinks in her giggles as she informs him that she was just meddling in the rose beds (("forgive my filthy hands")) though she fears her thumb is more yellow than green. "Still better than a brown thumb," he offers as he follows her into the massive home.

She senses a weight removing itself from her shoulders as the Spanish man informs her that he's there out of concern, that there had been an 'incident' between one of his teammates and Leo and that neither had been the same since; he's simply there to set things right. ((So it's not just me)). Wave after wave of relief overtakes her though confusion still breaks at the shores. "Why not Xavi," she asks simply as she retreats into the kitchen to fetch the man a bottle of Gatorade, eyeing the baby monitor for any curious sounds as she expects Thiago to rise within any moment. The answer finds her as she once again finds the warm eyes of the Andalucian and she agrees because "yes, yes I suppose those at the club" ((here)) "are too close to him to offer any kind of true reprieve". 

Hours must pass as they await Leo's return. She giggles and blushes more than she knows she should, it simply feels good to be noticed. ("He must've become caught up at the facility," she offers with an apologetic smile.) His smiles are dripping with more suggestion than he intends to convey, it simply feels good to have an effect on another. ("You think me bored of your company so soon?") Thiago joins them at some point, a smile nestled between rosy cheeks as he creates a minefield of Lego's on the living room floor but he notices Antonella's nerves rising, her composure shattering as the clock counts off another second, another minute, another hour. She notices him noticing her. She lets herself break.

Guilt rises from within his chest as the beauty of Argentina falls to tears before him, the beauty of España, the beauty of Russia and he hates the body sitting in the chair across from her, and her, and her. She laughs at herself and says something along the lines of "I don't know why I'm telling you this, we're practically strangers" but he shakes his head in understanding. He knows her well. Her name is Antonella and a child plays at her feet, her name is Pilar and child plays within her, her name is Irina held to him not by a child but by foolish feeling; whatever her name, she deserves better than tears, better than worry. 

Her mascara is bleeding and her lips are quivering yet still the Andalucian seems to be intent on her words, on her feelings and she feels herself inwardly blossoming under his attentions. She doesn't know if it is she that has gone to him, if it is he who has come to her, and yet still she finds herself in his warm embrace as her other half walks through the door. 

+

He's managed to convince Cristiano to return, watches patiently as he makes his way up the drive and yet the words spill out from within him before the other even makes his way through the door frame. "You can't tell him. You'd destroy him." He can't lie, he feels somewhat guilty as soon as the words part from his lips, find the spaces between them but he's convinced that this one would destroy that one more than he's destroyed him and he can't let that happen, won't let that happen. He sighs as Cris simply brushes past him, watches as the Portuguese paces the foyer and threads his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He can't blame him.

He's on the outside and he himself feels torn between the truths and the delusions, feels that he's being ripped apart by what they've already done and the thoughts of what they could potentially do. He's been awake most of the night as a result of the war that's been waged (("the damage has been done, why cause anymore" but "Leo needs help, we can't ignore this")) and he can easily see that he's not met conflict alone; Cris' hair isn't gelled, the bags under his eyes are still visible, his eyelids seemingly heavy as the eyes they shield have been made red by dryness. He remembers that he's made coffee.

"It's Columbian," he calls out as he places the mug on the dining room table, surrounding it with various creams and sugars as he retreats back into the kitchen to grab the bagels and the various cream cheeses and ((fuck it)) the rest of the pot of coffee. He smiles sympathetically when he returns and finds that the other's heavy gaze has fallen on him, raising the mug as if to remind the other that it is there. 

"He's destroying himself," Cris finally breathes out as his thoughts eventually find something rational to cling to. They're the only words they find though before they fall to Irina, to his mother, to his son, to his... Sergio. He gradually makes his way over to the table, absently running his fingertips over frames and strokes of ink, over faces and splatters binded with paper sealed in gloss. He finds the mug eventually, smiles softly as he brings it to his lips, inhales the strong aroma and releases an air of delight. He's sipping the black liquid within cautiously when that other voice rises, "...but I know what that's like." His nerves are shot and his thoughts are starting to border illogical; lips of Leo from nights before attempt to convince him that he'll remember fucking him in Zurich if he tries just hard enough but those lips, those lips lie. Those lips... 

He shakes his head, rids himself of the memory as he finds a coaster and covers it with his now emptied mug, fingertips tracing the rim as he loses his ground and finds himself seated. He laughs because ((what the fuck is this)), because he doesn't know what else to do. "I just can't, I can't wrap my head around why I should preserve Leo, Lionel fucking Messi, at the expense of Sergio. He's done nothing to..." ((he doesn't deserve this)). He scoffs incredulously, shakes his head in disbelief of both himself and the other (though he can't honestly say that he's surprised of where the former's loyalties lie). "He's a person, you know? An incredible person. You talk about him like he's some kind of... but you don't know him, will never know him because you'll always be blinded by the cover. So you talk about him as if he's expendable to this delusion of your friend's, as if I'm now expendable because of what I've already lost but he's..." Cristiano simply shakes his head, checks his emotions and ties them to logic. "You don't destroy the people that you love, Neymar." ((I can't destroy the people that I love)).

Neymar sighs, takes on a tone of voice that exceeds his years simply because he must if..."Sometimes we do. Sometimes we destroy things in the name of progress, to create something better." He knows that he's playing with fire because he knows Cristiano, knows more about Cris than the other has ever bothered to share; move your hand too slowly: burn, burn, burn... but he knows more about Cristiano than the Portuguese had ever bothered sharing so he presses him further; move your hand too quickly and he'll know it's a game. "It doesn't bother you that Sergio doesn't seem to trust you at all? I mean, it sounds like he was rather anxious to believe Leo because... I don't know." He shrugs and turns away as if in thought but he already knows what he wants to say. "It's like he needs to believe that you've committed this wrong." 

While Neymar can easily admit that he is ‘too young’ to care about much... "I may not know a hell of a lot" ...he knows he's just old enough to care about Leo, to truly care about him... "but that doesn't sound like a healthy relationship to me. You're supposed to trust the ones you love." He smiles as the other's eyes find him, as he sees that spark flicker before it quickly before fades; it doesn't matter that it's faded, it had been there. He tilts his head ever so slightly, faint intrigue in the company of annoyance with how much of himself he sees in those in eyes. "You'd be giving Sergio what he wants: that validation, that balance. I wrong, you wrong. You're tearing down something flawed by his emotional insecurities to make way for something better."


	17. On My Shoulders

He is standing and yet he isn’t, is here and yet not. The past few days had been filled with everything from grief to unadulterated ecstasy, with everything from joy to madness but even his darkest darks of days prior held no comparison to the reality he was being reminded of, didn’t compare to his reality. She seems as if she’s standing right there in front of him, she seems as if she’s only fingertips away and yet she’s never been further. He knows he should reach for her, knows he should try at the very least… doesn’t as he knows he’s unworthy. He is standing and yet he isn’t, here and yet not.  

She’s left the house moments, minutes, hours earlier; she had glided past him, Thiago clutched tightly against her chest, and he’d been but mere mist in her path. He had watched her walk down the walkway, had watched her pull out of the garage, had watched her drive through the gate and yet still he sees her, yet still he finds himself still; her mascara trails down the pure white sleeve of the other (and he’s sorry, so sorry), her favourite blush stains his shoulders a soft pink, stains the shoulders of Seville (and he’s sorry, so sorry) … She had begged him for that blush, had made a scene and had forced him to take arms against Spanish Customs for that blush. She swore that she needed every mineral of it ever manufactured, she swore that it was a matter of life and death. A matter of life and death. Every mineral, and it now stains the shoulder of another. He shakes his head and does his best to bury the memory but she’s screaming at him on a backdrop of white (and he’s sorry, so sorry). He feels as if he has no right to care about the traces of her on the clothing of another; he’s done this to her, has managed to cross the line an inch too far, has managed to hurt her just enough to drive her into foreign arms (and he’s sorry, so sorry). He has no right to care, no right to feel anything about what or may not have occurred and yet still, still he cares – so, much but he knows better than anyone that his so much just isn’t enough anymore. He’s sorry, so sorry and yet he finds himself standing still, finds himself unwilling to put the word into action.

((The clock, the clock… It -tick, tick, ticks- a little too loudly)). Another second gone. Another minute gone. Another hour: gone, gone, gone and yet still he’s still, and yet still he’s trapped within himself. He presses his fingers gently against his temple – against this one and then that one – closes his eyes against the too bright white lights of his home in an attempt to find his center, in an attempt to regain his focus. ((Tick, Tick, Tick)). Another second gone. Another minute gone. Another hour: gone, gone, gone and he’s finally home, he’s finally here. There’s no relief as he finds himself standing in his own doorway, no. There’s weight that threatens to crush him if… There’s a horrid amount of pain, of fear. He takes his time ((tick, tick, tick)), adjusts to the burden of his domestic life. His eyes open and he regrets having opened them almost immediately as he finds the eyes of the defender trained on him, as he finds the other waiting. And the weight on his shoulders feels a little bit heavier. His gaze isn’t as harsh as he had expected, isn’t as judgmental and yet still… “I don’t need to ask why you’re here, of that I’m sure. I’m not even surprised that you’d… You would drive all the way here just to out me to her, drive all the way here to ensure that I’m as miserable as you are. I was expecting this – honestly. I’m not even bothered” …but he’s always been a terrible liar and he flinches as his voice betrays him, cracks. He’s hurt simply because he knows she’s hurt (and he’s sorry, so sorry). He loves her – love doesn’t die so easily – just not in the way he once had (and he’s sorry, so sorry). He loves her. He hurt her. He can’t even think of a way to blame Sergio – for his actions, for his inactions, for his own – even if he wanted to  blame the other and yet he doesn’t. He doesn’t. “I just need for you to… If you don’t mind…? How did, uh, how did she…? I love her, Sergio. I do. It’s just a little different not... It’s not what she deserves anymore and I, uh… How did she respond when you finally, you know? When you told her?”

He laughs but the sounds, they’re not rooted in hilarity of any form. He smiles but he’s nowhere near content, much less joy. He’s simply over exhausted his daily – hell, his annual – resources of tears and pain; smiles and laughter seem to be the only forms of expression he has left and he makes due. He laughs but it’s not cynical, not menacing. He simply laughs and he wants to hate it with every fiber of his being yet even hatred... Gone. Gone. Gone. He’s lost so much of himself in all of this; he’s not even sure of why he’s given so much of himself, of why he's continuing to give even more. Doubts and insecurities; they’ve taken up arms against him, overwhelm and consume him. “I may be an asshole amongst some other not so nice things, Leo…” ((…childish …irrational …hasty …judgmental …vindictive times two)) – a breathy laugh is all he can spare this time “…but even in my eyes and on my end, she did nothing that would warrant that kind of hurt. She already has one too many men in her life harming her and, as far as I’m concerned, ignorance is bliss…” ((for who, I’m not sure)). He starts to pick at his cuticles because he doesn’t want to look at the lie Leo’s built his walls on any longer – pictures of Antonella and Leo, Leo and Antonella, of Thiago, his family, her family, their family; all of them: happy – but he can’t not look at them either. They’re just so… “So is she like a benign mother by day, serial killer by night or something?”

 Leo smiles simply because he feels as if he has to, he doesn’t know what else to do and Sergio’s presence... It’s comfortable in a way that rings peculiar, different yet not as imposing as he tends to be in any other setting. “You’re telling me that you drove all the way from Madrid simply because you’re worried about Antonella?” He scoffs as he shakes his head and finally closes the door behind him, finally tosses his bag into that oddly placed closet – ((“It’s for jackets and coats, Leo. You know, when we have guests?” “I’m just going to put my training shit in here” “Leo, don’t…” “Done. It’s done”)) – shakes his head to rid himself of the memory and, eventually, allows himself to fall onto his sofa. “Tell me, Sergio… How did Cristiano respond to your concern for Irina's wellbeing?” He chuckles because he can already imagine the scenario, does in at least five different ways but the outcome, the outcome is always the same. “Either you didn’t talk to him or you hide the black eye rather well.” He can see Sergio smiling, can hear his chuckle though the other seems a little confused, a little lost as the question finds hims. Leo’s quickly distracted from the other though, trades the defender’s look of confusion for the sight of his legs and almost immediately forgets the other’s guise. His thighs are still on fire, his calves and almost every other part of his body are screaming at him but, regardless of how commonplace Sergio’s presence currently is, he’s not willing to show the Spaniard any sign of weakness – ((it could be a ruse)) – so he resists the urge to massage the tightened and abused muscles and settles for rubbing his tiring eyes. “You seem to care more for the strength of my house than his.”

He could laugh and tell the little footballer that burning your own house down is arson and a felony, that he's more than happy to let him do so (though not so deep down, he's not). He could smile and tell the little flea that not everything is at it seems, that neither he nor Cristiano are as they seem. He could tell Leo a lot of things but he knows that he can't tell him anything that wouldn’t come resounding back to slap him in the face. He’s a lot of things – childish, irrational, hasty, judgmental, vindictive – but overly hypocritical isn’t one of those things; he tends to settle for slightly so. He, instead, tilts his head marginally to the side because it would seem that way, it would seem as if he held more concern over Leo's affairs than Cristiano's… to someone who is rarely ever around either of them. “There's no discussion to be had..." and there never had been. "Cris isn’t dating Irina anymore; the two of them broke up a few days ago. The night after you left Madrid, it would seem.” He holds his tongue, keeps himself from telling Leo the why of it all, why the two have parted ways because right now, right now he’s unsure of everything, too scared of everything. He’s consumed by the possibilities, overwhelmed by the amount of them. It’s possible that Cris had lied to him about what had happened with Irina and he’s looking at the reason why the other would lie to him: it's small and made in Argentina. It’s likely that Irina had misunderstood something, that she had gleaned too much from the so little that had already existed between herself and Cris and had ended something that was over before it had even began. Too, Leo could know everything he knows and so much more, could be testing him in some fucked up way… but Leo hasn’t responded to the information at all, instead looks completely unfazed.

The clock’s ticking is a little too loud – and he takes a moment in which he considers shattering every clock within his house – and the walls around him seem to be closing in on him but ((Sergio’s watching, Sergio’s…)) He buries every emotion that the revelation has given rise to, buries those feelings of hope and fear, of apprehension and excitement, of panic and elation. Sergio’s watching and he refuses to allow the other to see him being torn between these two opposing poles of sentiment. He isn’t sure of what it all means, of what Cris and Irina - or the current lack of - means but he feels as if it may be a sign that Cris is ready to take their relationship to its next stage, feels as if it may explain Cristiano’s unforeseen (yet greatly appreciated) arrival in Valencia a few nights before, feels as if it may explain those three words. He isn’t sure if he’s ready for this, isn’t sure he can possibly be more ready for it. His bottom lip finds its way between his teeth as his eyes find the other’s finding him; the recent status change of Cristiano’s officiated relationship would explain a lot, a lot but not everything… “I guess that explains what Cristiano was doing in Catalunya. And you...? You're here for what purpose? ...a purpose besides making me miserable.” The other doesn’t flinch at the conversations change of direction: his lips are still pressed together forming a line, his gaze is still heavy and unwavering, his hands still pressed together, fingers still threaded together. Sergio is the definition of poise - ((he could play football, could be a defender if he ever learned to translate that on the pitch)) - and Leo hates that he can’t read the other man. “You’re not here to speak with Antonella, not here to speak with me about her. I'm sure you're not here for some dinner party with Pique or Xavi so... What are you here to talk about, Sergio? Are you here to see if I would laugh and confess to pranking you should you turn up on my doorstep? Are you here to bully the queer boy, to straighten him out? Are you here…?”

“…to tell you that you need to back off? Absolutely.” He wants to hate that his tone of voice seems to betray him; he had envisioned firing off the warning with near violent intensity, with resolve and yet his voice finds his own ears as only tired, as exhausted. He can already hear Leo’s breathy chuckles and he knows Leo a little better than other thinks he does, knows what he’s thinking within that moment and he knows he can’t fault the other for it. “Cris and I, we’re…” but before the confession finds light, Leo’s thoughts find words and the frustration tied to those words is duly noted.

“No. No, I get it, Sergio.” The smile smeared across his face is rooted in disbelief - disbelief of himself for having been naïve enough to attribute Sergio’s presence to anything more than act of self-preservation - and his hand clenches into a fist as a sudden onset of anxiety overrides his nerves, forces him to find his feet because he needs to do something, needs to do anything. His voice is calmer than the rest of him yet more pointed in intent. “You’re worried about his career…” He finds that he needs to move something around, needs to affect something and before he even realises what he's holding, the vase Anto’s mother bought them shortly after Thiago was born is moved from the coffee table, to the mantle above the fireplace, and back to the coffee table again “…but only because you’re worried about your season…” Thiago had left his stuffed dinosaur on the couch and he’s overwhelmed with the need, with the urge to throw something and the Tyrannosaurus, it has evolved to flight only sixty million years past its extinction “…because your season affects your own, execrable fucking career…” He’s run out of things to move, things he’s okay with throwing and, by extension, losing so he moves himself because he needs to move, needs to affect something. He’s standing behind his sofa, hands tightly gripping the backrests, “…because you know you aren’t shit worth being without him...”

The rest of Leo's little rant falls to mute against his ears, blurs to inaudible gibberish as the little other finally said something he can agree with. ((You aren’t shit worth being without him)) and the Sevillan smiles an honest smile, a soft smile as he silently nods his head in solemn agreement because yes, he knows. Yes, he knows that he isn’t ((shit worth being without him)).

Then, like a wave to a rocky shore, it all comes crashing together. It’s strange, how he could be so right yet so very wrong. Ignorance is bliss but for who, for who he isn’t sure.

* * *

 

Davi has been staring at him for the past fifteen minutes – slack jawed, sandwich half-raised yet seemingly untouched otherwise – and he feels as if he’ll crack under this kind of pressure, under this kind of incessant attention. He did nothing that would warrant this. The white noise of the Bernabéu, of the Camp Nou, the relentless badgering of paparazzi, the microscopes of the sponsors… they have nothing on this kid and he feels as anxious as he does before a big match – perhaps more so, shifts in his seat simply because he has to do something with all of this false energy or he’ll ((…explode? …implode?)) plode in some way, shape, or form. “I have a son...” Unimpressed. The little blonde is unimpressed. “He, uh, likes cars. And football, of course. Do you like football?” The question is a stupid one, he knows it is, and he can see that this unfiltered human shares the sentiment, can see that the boy is calling him an idiot within the moment if that quizzical look happens to be tied to anything resembling a thought but he’ll readily admit that he’s at a loss. The boy’s silent stares aren’t necessarily warm and he’ll confess to being uncomfortable. He doesn’t know where Neymar’s run off to but he prays that the elder Brasilian returns soon. And then God said 'Let there be light'…

“I just got off of the phone with Xavi. The squad’s back and – surprise, surprise – Sergio is here. He called when he crossed the state line or something like that. I don’t know. I wasn’t concerned enough to listen as closely as I should have – you know, for your sake.” He chuckles as he notices Cristiano’s body tense with the information, the smile quickly dissipates and is replaced with the falling corners of his lips as he notices the vacancy in the eyes of the other attacker though. “Have you decided…?” He raises his eyebrows as the other moves his eyes as if to find his own, threads them together when he realises that Cris has simply reset his gaze on his son of whom is looking as Cris as if… “Hey! Davi! Eat your food, mijo. Stop staring at Cristiano; he only transforms into the devil when there’s a ball at his feet – I promise.” ((“Your dad transforms into a swimmer under the same circumstances. Don’t worry, we’ll make a great footballer of him yet.”)) “We?” He laughs and he feels a bit more at ease, a bit more relaxed about everything that has been, that will be. Everything that is. Cristiano had been guarded since he had arrived from Madrid; the jovial break in his previously grave tone of voice is relieving, the smile he’s currently flashing at his son, that mischievous chuckle presently filling the spaces between the walls of his home: comforting. Yes. He sees what Leo sees in this guy, he sees and he feels… He feels empty because Cristiano is a mirror yet he isn’t. But life is anything but fair. Life is anything but... He knows as much so he replaces something that feels a little bitter with something a little sweeter, with something of a soft smile. Replaces something that feels a little hurt with something that feels a little good, with something of a light-hearted laugh. “Stop feeding my kid your delusions...” ((We have enough of those)). He finishes his coffee, cringes as he finds the bitter liquid sickeningly cold, and finds himself stuck on his word choice. “Davi, why don’t you go and, uh… Take your food with you into the family room and put on the match from yesterday. It’s a good one, I promise.”

Cristiano sighs in quiet relief, plays with the sweating palms of his hands and watches as Davi finally moves, as Davi finally stands and carries his grapes and sandwich off to the living room to watch the replay of the game from the day before. “My life is becoming rooted in delusions, it would seem. Feel my pain.” The joy from only moments before had been fleeting and already he misses it as he chews on the tips of his fingernails. “I don’t think it bothers me that he’s having a breakdown of some kind…” ((“of course it doesn’t bother you, he’s /my/ friend”)) “…it bothers me that these things that I swear I’m not doing, he’s fine with them. I mean, it’s apparent that he’s completely comfortable with the idea of… you know.” He looks up to see Neymar shaking his head, obviously not knowing. “The idea of him and I…” he threads his fingers together, presses his palms against one another because if he says the words – “him and I /fucking/” – then it all becomes real, too real. There’s still a chance that he’s simply caught up in the middle of a nightmare of some kind, that he’s sleeping in some way and that this will all be over as soon as an alarm of sorts goes off… Sure, it’s probably a sleep resembling that of a coma – a concussion, he could have suffered a concussion – but it’s probable and he clings to that.

“It’s not like he’s ever hated you.” It’s true but he doesn’t know why he’s said it. He just kind of… did. It’s an obvious statement, so obvious that it rings as something mundane even as it falls on his own ears. He isn’t trying to comfort the other man – not really, isn’t setting out to stroke the ego of his ‘rival’ winger (because he can actually do with less of that, in his opinion); perhaps he simply wants Cris to look at Leo, to see him – to truly see Leo in the way that he does, in a way that would assure him that he would never hurt Leo. Perhaps.

He shakes his head but not because he disagrees, he shakes his head because he knows that he doesn’t know. “It’s not like he’s ever loved me either, not even now. It's not like he's ever wanted to... you know." He looks up and, this time, this time Neymar knows. "I just, I know that if he’s telling you that he loves me, he’s telling you that he’s in love with some idea he has of me - he doesn't even know me - and I can’t… Even if I do whatever neurotic thing it is that you want me to do, Ney, it’ll never work because I’m not an idea. I'm definitely not his idea. We’ll enable him for a little while at best - at my expense, at Sergio’s… and then what? What happens then? He gets to say ‘my bad’ and I’m left with the nothing he forced me into?” He feels moisture on his cheeks, and then against the back of his forearm, he snivels and he scolds himself for doing so. Life is anything but fair. Life is anything but... “I’m a fucking wreck.”

(“That’s a bad word.”) ((“I didn’t know that your kid talked.”)) “He talks… to people he likes.” ((“He doesn’t even know me.”)) “You don’t really look like the most approachable person.” ((“Kids usually love me.”)) “Kids are stupid.” (“Daddy.”) ((“My kid isn’t stupid.”)) (“Daddy.”) “Are you sure he’s your kid?” (“Daddy.”) ((“Fuck you.”)) (“That’s a bad word.”) ((“I’m sorry.”)) (“It’s okay… Daddy.”) “Yes, mijo?” (“Leo is here!”)


	18. Don't Do This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I’m sorry I never told you – that /we/ never told you – but… I wanted to tell you in C. 7" -- I found this error just before I posted. I thought it was funny. // Also, I write with my friends at times and feed them little concepts from time to time so if one of the lines in the second paragraph sounds eerily familiar, that's why. It's mine but it's present in her work as well as this one. 
> 
> *Editing* so, as usual, beware of the flawfuls.

((I don’t belong in the middle of this)) and he almost turns around, almost heads back through the gate, back home where he’s sure Nuria is almost finished with the paella but he knows that if he leaves now... If he leaves now Nuria will probably kill him before he even breathes in the scent of paella and he’s sure Antonella would eventually drown him in her sorrow-filled tears. He feels himself being overcome by yet another wave of guilt and he scolds himself ((I should have told her. I should have told her the second I found out)). He rubs his hand over his eyes, over his lips and eyes the doors of the terminal. He had called Iker as soon as Nuria had called him on his commute back from the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, as soon as he had heard Antonella pouring her heart and soul out and into Nuria’s hands in the background, and he checks his watch, figures that ((he should be here by now)).

* * *

He feels his breath hitch, feels it catch in his throat and his heart flutters within his chest to remind him that he’s alive as he finds the eyes of Portugal surveying him from a seated place in the living room. He’s as beautiful as he’s always been despite the heaviness he finds in the other’s eyes, almost in spite of the heaviness; he’s strokes of da Vinci and splashes of Pollock; he’s stains of Van Gogh, marble beneath the touch of Michelangelo, lines of Picasso...  He's artist unknown, seemingly chiseled and carved with only the fallen tears of Aphrodite herself and raised to breath by the ichor of Adonis. Beautiful. His. This man, this man can easily become everything to him… When all of this comes to a close, he very well may be; he may be everything, they may be nothing, but he’ll always, always be something to him.

"God, you’re gorgeous.” It topples off of his lips as something just above a whisper and yet even then, even then he feels as if his voice finds his ears a little too stridently. He mutely shushes himself, reprimands himself for the crack within his voice and shakes his head with a smile as soft as Egyptian Cotton as he finds Cris modelling a blush similar to the one painting his own cheeks. All eyes on him; he isn’t surprised to find the Sevillan glaring though he seems to be holding something back, isn’t surprised to see the hurt he knows Ney is trying to hide in his Brasilian stare, is surprised to find misted confusion in the eyes of the Madrid number seven. He feels his stomach tremble and churn; ((he knows, he knows, he knows)). His cheeks are wet (and he’s sorry, so sorry).

Davi’s feeling as uncomfortable as any two and half year old surrounded by adults would and Neymar’s looking for an excuse, for an escape from this tension; he picks up the little blonde as he informs the others that he needs to distract the boy before the conversation gets too serious, carries him off to his room and places him on the bed just as his emotions begin to get the better of him. He doesn’t know why his eyes are leaking, doesn’t know if he’s crying because he’s found Leo in love with the idea of someone who isn’t him, doesn’t know if he’s crying because Leo’s found him so utterly lost, so utterly fucked up. He simply feels for Leo, simply feels. He doesn’t want to feel anymore; it isn’t supposed to be like this. Since he’s arrived in the fall, Leo’s always been the hand he could reach for, has always been his crutch and now, now it’s just so twisted, so wrong. ((I’m not the mature one here)). Davi’s looking up to him and he forces a smile that’s no longer forced when the little blonde returns it. “Do you want to play a game while daddy’s talking?” The little boy nods and Neymar’s trying to find the one that had sucked him in only the day before when the small boy uses his even smaller voice. ((“Daddy, why are you crying?”)) “Daddy’s just tired,” and he stops forcing the smile as little arms wrap around him, stops forcing the strength as he holds it in his arms. He declines the idea of a nap as it’s offered to him but takes the blanket because he knows the little boy won’t let him leave until he does something about the wet cheeks, takes the second hug and the warm kiss on the cheekbone. Takes the “I love you, Daddy” and locks it away for future use.

Sergio’s staring at him as he steps back out into the hall and he feels a shiver working its way down his spine; he’s never liked being on the end of one of the defender’s stares but there’s something different about this one, something missing. ((“You’re a great father.”)) Malice. There isn’t a trace of malice and he releases a breath he should have never been holding (it’s his house) at the first words, remembers that the number four is soon to take the title for himself, and smiles appreciatively as he makes his way back out towards the living room with the Spaniard in tow. “So what brings you here…? Not here as in…” he directs his open palms down, referring to his home, “but here as in, in the hallway and not in the living room.” Sergio seems to be shadowing him and he finds himself smiling softly as the answer as to why that is falls on his ears*. He nods his head in acceptance of the answer – in silent agreement – and drags the Sevillan into the kitchen with him as he grabs a bottle of water for himself, as Sergio grabs a bag of chips out of the pantry for himself. Into the dining room where he had left his phone at the table, into his bedroom for a better fitting shirt, out of the patio doors for some fresh air… until they’ve run out of places to be and things to do in the name of avoidance. He simply looks at Sergio, watches as the other draws in a rich breath of air before finding the hesitant nod. *((“I just don’t think I can be in the same room as Cris and Leo right now”)) – hurt by the gods, the mortals struggle to cope.

He’s chewing on his bottom lip, completely unfazed by the taste of blood as it stains his tongue, phone up but nothing painting its display catches his attentions enough to keep his thoughts off of the figure in his peripheral. Cristiano doesn’t understand it; as far as Leo’s concerned, the two of them are in some kind of an intimate relationship and yet he’s chosen to sit on a sofa opposite of where he’s sitting. He wants to ask why, wants to ask how he’s managed to fictitiously wrong the other (this time as he’s done it before, so say the Culés) but he’s afraid of the answer and the implications asking may carry. He doesn’t want to enable the Argentinian but he doesn’t want to hurt him either.

A body sinking into the cushion next to him derails his train of thought and he wants to smile as the familiar scent floods his nostrils but, at the same time – Sergio is here, is in Catalunya – Neymar had made a point and the rationale now plagues him. ((You’re supposed to trust the one you love)). He’s conflicted, happy that he hasn’t been damned to suffer alone and yet crushed because his lack of lonely is Neymar’s proof. They’re something flawed, something completely and utterly fucked up now… and while he wants to blame Leo – and oh, he wants to blame the little forward – he finds that he can’t; Leo’s simply been the light stuffed in a cracked vase, the light exposing the vase’s every flaw, not the little kid who dropped it. He stares at his shoes as he speaks.

“Iker just texted me…” he informs the others and he shivers as he finds himself (oddly) uncomfortable with all of the attention on him. That’s unusual. ((I’m going to need therapy to get back to normal after this)). “He, uh… I guess Antonella was home when Sergio got to Leo’s,” he pauses as both Leo and Sergio nod in affirmation, “and she left when Leo finally arrived, went to Xavi’s house. When he left Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper – or wherever the fuck you guys train at – he received a text from Nuria and he called Iker, let him know that Sergio and I are both here. Anyway, Iker said he should be here in like, fifteen minutes. His plane just landed.” ((“Was he texting in all caps or…?”)) He looks at Sergio’s thigh as he still can’t bring himself to look the other in the eye, shakes his head. He's breaking beside him but he refuses to allow Leo, to allow Neymar to see his frailties. “Nah. He did have to tell Carlo that we were here though. And Perez. Perez is already talking to AS and Marca, paying them to keep their mouths shut, and he said that Xavi is supposed to talk to Martino and Rossell but… I don’t know. Hopefully they can cool down or play off whatever information Mundo Deportivo has. I don’t know how it works here.”

Neymar is still standing, soaking in the information like a sponge as he gnaws at the inside of his cheek. “He must be pretty pissed about two of his captains being here with Granada right around the corner.” ((“I think he’d rather us deal with this than be distracted against them. At least, I hope. I mean, we do struggle against Andalucian clubs...”)) and he nods as Sergio’s voice trails, bites his tongue to keep from voicing the witty remark that has crossed his mind. When his teeth seem to be failing, he rediscovers the form of Sergio Ramos, reminds himself that Cristiano Ronaldo is sitting right beside him and that they're two of Real Madrid’s most physical players – emphasis on physical. Not that he thinks that they’d ever hurt him over a playful jibe made in the name of club rivalry yet still… The silence eats away at him. “You know, I don’t understand how we’re supposed to come up with an effective way to resolve all of this if we’re all just going to be sitting here like a handful of mutes in an AA meeting so…" he releases a sharp exhale, draws in an exaggerated breath of air. "Hi, my name is Neymar da Silva Santos – Júnior – and I was born in Brasil, moved here less than a year ago. I have a son. I play for FC Barcelona when I’m not injured and I am not involved in any of this.” He smiles as Sergio’s chuckles reach his ears.

…and he wants to echo the sentiment, wants to replace Neymar’s name with his own, wants to replace Brasil with Portugal and delete the time frame, wants to replace FC Barcelona with Real Madrid because he’s not, he swears he’s not involved in any of this either. He’s managed to be completely uninvolved and yet he’s at the catastrophic epicenter of all of this – his family, his friends, his life. “The morning after the gala, the morning after you texted me about waking you up and I just…” ((“It’s called sarcasm. You have to admit that it was kind of a dick move. Regardless of your intentions that night, I would have set the alarm for you if it was the other way around. You knew I’d have a flight to catch”)) and his jaw clenches as he notices Sergio tense. “I wasn’t even with you that night, Leo. I couldn’t have been,” and he knows that Neymar is cursing him under his breath but he doesn’t care. Leo deserves to know the truth and he’s always prided himself on his honesty. “It’s impossible.” He flicks through the images from the night on his phone, sees himself with his son, sees himself with Sergio, with Jorge. “I was never with you that night.”

He feels himself shatter, feels himself break as the denial reaches him – firm, unwavering. He shakes his head because ((no)). He refuses to believe that Cristiano means what he’s saying but he doesn’t need to convince himself for long, finds the reason for the words sitting directly beside the winger. “You’re only saying that because Sergio’s here. You’re only saying that because you’re afraid and… You don’t need to be afraid, Cris.” ((“I’m a lot of things, Leo, but afraid isn’t one of them. It’s impossible, Leo. Just think about it, think about it for one second and you’d know that...”))

“It’s not impossible,” and Cris stops himself as Sergio interrupts him, as Sergio eyes him clearly provoked with thought. “It’s not…” and he’s overwhelmed as he recalls the evening. “After everyone left, when it was just the two of us… We were supposed to take a cab back your place, finish celebrating there but you told me that Junior had left something – his stuffed thing. His dinosaur thing, you were holding it. You said, you said…” and fuck, he hates himself for crying. “I’m not saying that you went back to Zurich, I’m not saying anything but possible…? It is possible.” He threads his fingers through his hair, tugs and pulls at his roots, tugs and pulls and hates himself for not remembering that damned stuffed dinosaur sooner… but he remembers Thiago’s dinosaur. The tears stop, are replaced with memories… “You were gone for most of the night, didn’t come back until late in the morning but the sun wasn’t out and we didn’t have to go to training. I gave you a shitty lap dance and then we, and then we…”

“…and then you what?”

“…got shitfaced and called a few hookers... We’re sorry” but Cristiano can tell that Iker already knows what happened next, can see it in his face that is now encompassed in absolute shock. He can see Xavi behind the goalkeeper, can see a similar expression that dissipates within a few moments. ((Why is Xavi here?)) He hates that he never told Iker, is surprised that Sergio never had. “I am sorry, Iker. I truly am. I’m sorry I never told you – that /we/ never told you – but… I wanted to tell you that day. The day after Barcelona played Getafe. The day Fabio saw Leo leaving my house but I… Sergio broke up with me shortly after you talked to me, if it’s any consolation.” He keeps himself from looking at Leo, keeps himself from voicing sarcastic gratitude and furrows his brows as Xavi slaps Iker on the arm. ((“I had called you that night and you never confirmed that Leo was there. Shit! I asked you to do one thing, Iker… Goddamnit, Leo. You should have told me”)) and he can’t take it anymore. ((How the fuck does Xavi know about this shit!? How does he…)) and he finds himself glaring at Leo, glaring at Neymar. “We didn’t do anything – we have never, NEVER done anything. He fell asleep on my counter while I was at Fabio’s that night. You see, he fell asleep” and he holds up his cell phone, holds up his vindication. “I told him I wasn’t there, to let himself in. He did and he woke up when I got there. We spent a grand total of three minutes together – less!”

Sergio takes his phone from him, scrolls through the messages until he finds something about the Getafe match. He hates the way Leo is talking to Cristiano in the text messages but finds himself even angrier with Cris. He should have told him that he had made plans with Leo, that the Argentinian would be going over to his home after the match so that they could speak. Alone. “It took you more than an hour to get onions from Fabio? What did he have you do for them? Extra training…?” He frowns as he continues browsing through the rest of Cristiano’s messages, frowns as he finds some older ones between them, texts that now seem to be from another life. “Why would you go over to Fabio’s anyway? He takes his vegetables from /your/ garden. If he had green onions, you probably had some in your backyard...” but he stops pressing as Cristiano’s phone flashes notice of an incoming call. “It’s Maria. You should take it; it’s probably about Junior.”

Neymar watches as Cristiano takes the phone and leaves the room, watches as Sergio’s brows furrow together in even deeper thought and he finds it all so… He finds it odd that Sergio keeps shooting down all of Cristiano’s defenses, tears apart all of his alibis and wonders what the Sevillan is truly doing here as he obviously doesn’t believe Cristiano in the least. He’s young. He’s dumb. He asks. “Why are you here, Sergio?” He shouldn’t be surprised when all eyes find him but he is. “I mean, you’re obviously not here to salvage anything with Cristiano. You clearly don’t trust him and you can’t rebuild anything without trust… I get that you want to know the truth but, does it really matter at this point?” He can see Xavi pointing to his leg, pointing to the sofa and he has to chuckle because Xavi would… He really should sit. Leo looks completely deflated, looks lost and confused and… ((It’s not supposed to be like this)). It isn’t supposed to be like this and yet it is so he’ll be the hand, he’ll be the crutch. He falls into the cushion beside the number ten, nudges him with his shoulder and accepts the poor excuse for a smile he’s offered. He smiles as he hears Iker ask Xavi ((“what the hell is Neymar doing here”)) and chuckles as Xavi informs the other that ((“it’s Neymar’s house”)).

((“I’m just worried about Cristiano”)) and Leo breaks his shock-induced silence as he agrees with the Sevillan, Iker following suit. “As much as it hurts to hear him denying everything that we are and have become over these past few… As much as it hurts, I know he must be hurting more – he must be...” He rubs at his eyes with the tips of his fingers, grabs at his mouth shortly after and tries to still his mind, attempts to find calm. “I mean, everything between us, everything happened so quickly and I – shit! – I didn’t even know that he had broken up with Irina until Sergio told me. I haven’t met his son, haven’t met his mother and he’s already told me that he loves me. We haven’t had a conversation, a real conversation about anything and I’ve already told him that I love him. I just… I’m not taking anything back – I love him; I do – but I don’t want to be some kind of emotional rebound. Even so, even if that is what’s going on between us, for him to deny Zurich, to deny Getafe so adamantly… I’m worried.”

…and Iker finds himself empathizing with the small forward (eyes quirking as he notices the way Neymar is looking at the number ten because (Xavi might have his own inner team strife) if he’s as reckless as he had been in all of this). “If it’s any consolation, I spoke with Cristiano’s mother after that whole incident in Madrid. I had received a call from Xavi, Cris wasn’t answering but Fabio had. He’d told me about you leaving and... I don’t know. I reached out to Cris’ mother that night and you probably want to put off meeting her for as long as possible. I just wanted to let her know that the club and the players therein would be behind Cristiano one hundred percent come hell or high water but… I had to listen to her cry for about ten minutes before spending another five trying to make out the words caught in all of her sobs. Just another day in the life of Iker Casillas. I only called because I felt as if I had an obligation to my friend, to my teammate. ” He smiles as Leo chuckles, finds Sergio grinning as he continues to talk about Cristiano’s mother, a woman notorious for being overly fond of her son. “Of course, that was when I had only known about him being, you know – bisexual? …pan-whatever-sexual thing. I didn’t know about all of this when I spoke with her. Hell, I didn’t know about any of this.”

“I spoke with her before we left for Seville, before we left for the game against Betis. She was concerned but I’m not sure if she was worried about him being, you know, queer or if she was actually concerned for him. He did use curse words with her and, I don’t know, I’ve just never heard him disrespect his mother before.” His chest feels tight, feels oh-so heavy and he knows, knows that he should be drowning in tears right now but he can’t find a tear, doesn’t deserve a tear because she’s right, she’s so completely right. ((You knew that he was cheating on me with you. You knew that the two of you were being disloyal and dishonest in whatever it is that the two of you have done and yet, here you are, shocked and upset that he was disloyal and dishonest with you…)) “Silly, silly boy.” All eyes on him and he’s forced to shake his head dismissively. “You’re not as upset as I thought you would be,” he presses as he finds Leo’s expression distant. “You know how pissed off I was when I found out about you and yet, Cris is denying the two of you even exist together anywhere off of the pitch and you’re just sitting there.”

He rubs his thighs with the palms of his hands, sighs as he finds himself within both Iker and Sergio’s attentions, groans as he finds himself within Xavi’s and - worse - within Neymar’s. “I don’t have the right to be angry or upset with Cristiano,” and he hopes that it’ll be enough, hopes that the three Spaniards with a sprinkle of Brasil will take it for what it is and change course but he’s fooling only himself. “Look, I… Fuck. Okay, alright. I fucked up. Last night, in Valencia. Everyone was so high on the win and I just… It’s never going to happen again,” but the eyes are still on him. Sergio’s eyebrows are raised in intrigue, Iker’s lowered in confusion and Xavi is wearing his lecture face. “Cristian and I. In the showers after the game.” Round eyes. “Look, it’s never going to happen again. We’ve already talked about it and he’s perfectly fine, a little too fine with it but…” ((“What the fuck? The LGBTQIA just needs to endorse our sport for fucks sake… I’m not queer-shaming but I mean, come on”)) and he finds humour in Iker’s frustrations, in his revelations. He knows better than to look at Xavi and he can barely stand sharing air with Neymar. “I’m sorry,” (so very sorry).

…and Cristiano has to laugh because “seriously?” He’s in disbelief of what he’s hearing. “You fuck up my life with this whole Zurich allegation, burn it to ash after your game against Getafe, and then you, you cheat on me – not the real me but the me that seems to exist in your demented fucking head – with one of your teammates? Alright, alright. Let’s say that I’m lying, Leo. I’m lying… You cheated on me?! …with Tello?! That’s it, Leo. That is it. We’re done,” but he’s the only one who seems to be amused with the situation he’s returned to, everyone else seems to be… “No. No, don’t… Don’t look at me like that! You can’t be, you can’t be fucking serious right now! You’re telling me that you believe Leo, that you believe him over me?! You can’t, you can’t…" his smile disappears, his voice reduced to a whispered plea. "Please, Sergio, please tell me you don’t believe him. Tell me that you know he’s lying. Tell me, Sergio. Tell me,” and he hates that the other looks at him with pity, hates that the Sevillan seems to feel sorry for him. “Iker…” but the Spaniard has already approached him, is pulling him into a sympathetic hug while assuring him that he’ll have their full support as he receives help. He simply looks to Neymar.

The Brasilian is shaking his head, is begging for the Madrid talisman to leave his thoughts out of it. His face is leaking as the conflict builds itself up from within his stomach, from within his soul. “I don’t, I don’t know what to believe anymore, Cristiano. I’m sorry.”

((Me too)). “Don’t, don't... I'm telling, I'm telling the truth,” and his voice breaks as it downgrades to a desperate whisper, as Iker’s arms grow ever tighter around him, are accompanied by sleeves of ink. There are tears. ((Don’t do this…)) Xavi has his phone out, has it on speaker for whatever reason and he feels an ounce of hope rise from within the core of his gut as he hears what has to be Cristian Tello’s voice coming from the other end of the line. ((Please, Cristian. Please don’t let them do this to me)). “Té. I need you to be completely honest with me.” ((Don’t let them do this to me)) and Xavi looks to him with sympathy in his eyes, is giving him the benefit of the doubt and he wants to thank him. More arms find his torso. ((“Last night, after the win against Levante in Valencia… Did something happen in the showers?” ((Please, Cristian. Please)) but he realises that the pause in the others response is just a little too long… and he braces himself. ((“Fuck. I’m sorry, Xavi. I was just so… Leo and I already… and I know it was completely unprofessional and if I could take it back, if I could undo what’s been done, I would. I wasn’t thinking.”)) “Don’t do this to me.”


End file.
